


Highlander: The Punkening

by SmokesAndSpades



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Action, Activism, Alcohol, All the swearing, Anarchy, Angst, Asexual main character, Beta Wanted, Did I Mention the Swearing?, Drug Use, Gen, Government Corruption, Grey and Black Morality, Homelessness, Introspection, Neither Did Most of the Movies, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Police Brutality, Post-Series, Poverty, Protests, Punk Rock, Season 6 Probably Didn't Happen, Shoplifting, Squatting, Thriller, Underage Drinking, punk as fuck, soundtrack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:20:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokesAndSpades/pseuds/SmokesAndSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"River Rat" Mike is a crust punk who never grew up. Literally. He's been a teenage street kid ever since his first death in the mid-80's. For thirty years, he's refused to follow the rules or play the game. Not society's game, and not the one played by sword-wielding Immortals.</p><p>But Mike's about to get thrown head-first into a tangled conflict of power and violence. Can anarchy and passive-resistance survive in the face of government corruption and Immortal ambitions? Or will he have to sacrifice his ideals to keep his head?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead End

* * *

They live among us, moving silently down through the centuries. Immortals, constantly facing each other in combat to the death. The winner takes their enemy’s head, and with it, their power.

They call it ‘The Game’…

…I call it bullshit.

I was just a punk, trying to get by on the streets of Sacramento. People used to tell me I never thought about the consequences. Truth was I never had time to think about anything but survival. Then I died. Now I’m caught up in a game played by centuries-old immortals, where someone like me doesn’t stand a chance. Their rules say that in the end, there can be only one…

…but I’ve never been good at following the rules.

* * *

 [[Dead Kennedys - Dead End] ](https://youtu.be/W0-VfiTaeI4)

 

I think I was was born in the ’70s, but I don’t remember them much. I may have been a child of the ‘Me Generation’, but I grew up in the ‘80s—in the middle of Sacramento’s Hardcore scene. Grew up fast, hard, and angry—just like the music. Spent my days squatting, camped out by the river, or crashing at the Bert House, and my nights searching for punk shows. I saw bands play under bridges, in basements and laundromats, anywhere they could set up. Saw the Dead Kennedys and Agent Orange at Club Minimal, during the few months it was open before the cops shut it down. I can’t be sure, but I think my first death was when I got trampled during one of the raids. I remember feeling a rib crack, wheezing and coughing up blood on a pair of police-issue jackboots. Struggling to breathe. Next thing I knew I was waking up in a cell with four other battered kids and a pair of winos. Cops didn’t even do us the courtesy of taking us to juvie, just gathered us up and threw us in the drunk tank with the grownups. Our fault for not having ID, I guess. Or maybe they thought they’d scare us straight. As if. The upshot was, my ribs felt fine. In fact I felt better than I had in weeks.

After I got out I drank and partied even harder than before. Did a lot of stupid shit. Got in trouble, got in fights, got fucked up—fell off the I-80 overpass once—but none of it seemed to stick. People came and went. Friends, bands, girlfriends, boyfriends. After a while I started to realize that the whole scene was dying out around me. That was when I first started to notice that I was different. I mean, sure, I got chased down an alley by a sword-wielding lunatic a few times, but that wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen in Sacramento in the 80’s. One time this necrophiliac hijacked a hearse and took off with some dude’s body. It was all over the news, family freaking out—a real gas. Anyway, I guess I wasn’t big on introspection, because it took me a while to notice that I wasn’t getting any older. That’s not something you really think about when you’re a kid. I just dived into the music and the culture like jumping off a stage, and by the time I stuck my head up and looked around, everything had changed.

Now I’m smoking in the alley behind what used to be one of the biggest record stores in town, wondering what the hell happened. This place was called ‘The Beat’, now it’s a fucking BevMo. There’s something to be said for cheap booze, but I miss the days when I didn’t have to get all my music out of a computer. Then again, hauling around a backpack full of tapes and records isn’t exactly a party. I take one last drag, and stub out my butt against the ‘no loitering’ sign. The lights from the street and the loading bay make the alley brighter than it should be this time of night--but not by much.

So here we are. 2015. This was supposed to be the fucking future. We were supposed to have _hoverboards._ Instead we’ve got ‘no skateboarding’ signs all over the place. Fucking fascists. Old people, with old ideas. And they’re winning. Speaking of…

It’s hard to describe what it feels like when you sense the presence of another immortal. There’s this itch in the back of your head—or maybe more like a whisper—and a tightening in your gut and your balls that tells you trouble is coming. I’m reaching for another cigarette when it hits, my fingers halfway into the pocket of my denim vest. I glance to my right, towards the street, and a dark figure in a trenchcoat steps into the alley. A gleaming arc of steel slips out from beneath the black leather. A katana.

“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

I am fucking gone. I book it down the alley and across the parking lot, dashing through the evening traffic on J street. I’d rather slamdance with somebody’s bumper than tangle with Duncan Idaho back there. The ones who announce themselves are bad news. Fucking psychos, stuck in a dark age mentality that says ‘honor’ means politely introducing yourself before trying to murder someone. Better to wind up as street pizza for a few minutes than get my head chopped off. Besides, who wants to get killed by the kind of poser that runs around in a black leather trenchcoat with a katana?

A few more turns--and a couple hopped fences--and I spare a glance back over my shoulder. Good, he’s not following. I don’t sense him nearby either. Most of them will back off if you can get somewhere public enough, though you can never be sure. Might be a good idea to spend the night on holy ground just to be safe. I slow to a walk and get my bearings. After forty years, I know this town pretty well, but even I don’t have every street memorized.

Christ, forty years. When did I get so fucking old?

*    *    *

St. John’s Lutheran Church, 1982

[ [NOFX - Freedom Like A Shopping Cart] ](https://youtu.be/zLwcVG_qF74)

 

I still remember going to my first punk concert. I was maybe twelve. Played hooky from Sunday school with this kid who said his brother was in a rock band. We told the teacher we had to pee, then climbed out the bathroom window and ran. Had to stand on the sink to reach it. Damn thing wouldn’t even open all the way, had this chain attached to the sill. Amazing what you can fit through when you’re twelve years old and determined not to spend another afternoon singing hymns. God bless the days when two little kids could go booking down the street in their navy dress shorts and jackets, without anybody saying a damn word. These days they’d throw up an amber alert in two seconds flat. Hell, we’d never have gotten out of the goddamned bathroom.

Our hearts were racing as fast as our feet when we finally made it to the old house on Capitol Avenue. Back in those days, rock n’ roll was still ‘The Devil’s Music’, the height of everything awesome and forbidden. To a couple of Sunday school brats, what we were doing was an almost inconceivable act of rebellion. Downright treasonous. We could hear the band tuning up from the front porch, but it took us a few minutes to work up the courage to try the door. Each of us dared the other to go first. Turns out it was open. We followed the sound down to the basement, golden-brown carpeted stairs muffling our footfalls as we descended into a cavernous room crammed with high-schoolers. They couldn’t have been that much taller than us, but they looked like giants.

The band was one of those garage acts that spring up and fade away without leaving any mark upon the world besides the people that saw them play. I don’t even remember the name for sure. Think it was the Gutter Weasels. Maybe. Hell, I don’t remember the name of the kid I broke out of St John’s and ran across town to see them with. Jim? Matthew? Ricky? I’ve got the face, but not the name. Not anymore. What I do remember is hearing the word fuck more times in one afternoon than all the fifteen minute recesses that came before. I remember screaming along with songs I’d never heard before, and still don’t know the words to. I remember that even when I couldn’t make out most of what was being said, each song seemed to perfectly articulate a rage and frustration that I hadn’t even admitted to myself before then. I remember deciding, right there, that I would never go back.

About halfway through the show they called an intermission, and Ricky’s brother came over to talk to us. Two little kids screaming and moshing in their Sunday best doesn’t exactly go unnoticed, but we hadn’t really picked up on how much we stood out until then. His brother made us swear a solemn promise not to rat him out. Apparently his folks still thought they were a Jesus music band, and he was afraid they’d ground him and take away his guitar if they found out. After giving our word, he brought us up on the foot-high cinderblock stage and introduced us to everybody. Even did a couple more songs while we danced and thrashed with gleeful abandon.

*    *    *

I pull back from the memory. Definitely one of the high points of my young life, but the thing about high points is that a lot of downhill tends to follow. Eventually I did go back, of course. Despite my promise to myself. When you’re in the sixth grade and completely fed up, running away sounds like a great idea at first. But after you’ve been hiding in a storm drain or under a play structure for the last few hours and it starts getting dark, your resolve begins to waver. I was in and out of foster homes and state houses a lot before I finally made the break for good. It was easier once I knew I could make it on my own out there.

Glancing around, I realize where I am. Nearest holy ground is St. John’s on L street. Fuck that. I spent enough time running away from that place that I’m not going to run there now. Besides, the night is still young. I’m not nearly ready to hang it up just yet.

I should probably warn the others though, and that means getting somewhere with wifi. There’s a Starbucks on the corner of 19th and J, so I head there. The city is home to a handful of other immortals, but only one or two that I actually know. The old crowd and I don’t really move in the same circles. The few that I am on speaking terms with are like me: misfits on the fringes of society. None of us play the game, so we try to watch out for each other. Most of the time that means keeping our distance, especially since the Gathering started. Trust is in short supply, and getting used to it being a friend when you sense the presence of another immortal can get you killed. Sometimes though, it means putting the word out when a headhunter hits town.

‘The Game.’ That’s what the old ones call it. What it really is is ritual combat and murder. Immortals killing each other for power. For ‘The Prize.’ Jesus. The fucking euphemisms. The guy who taught me about it didn’t dance around the subject like that. He was a crazy drunken bum, but he was probably the least full of shit person I ever met. Older than dirt too. Even he didn’t know for sure what the prize was. Said most immortals thought it was ‘absolute power’ or some crap like that. Told me all he knew for certain was that every time an immortal takes another immortal’s head, they absorb all their opponent’s strength and knowledge--and that the last one left would have the combined power of every immortal that's ever lived. Considering what the old man himself was capable of, that’s a scary thought.

It’s also why so many immortals go around chopping off each other’s heads. It’s the only way we can really die, more or less. We recover from almost anything, even stuff that makes you flatline. But there’s a limit. Limbs don’t grow back. Or if they do it’s really fucking slow. I know a lady who says she lost her leg in the American revolution. It’s still just a stump.

Ultimate power doesn’t interest me. All I want is the freedom to live my life without people trying to force me to do things their way. For some reason society seems to think that’s an awful lot to ask. But I’m not asking. You don’t ask for something that belongs to you. You take it, and you hold it, and you never _ever_ apologize to the tyrants who try to steal it from you.

Shit.

This headhunter thing has got me worked up. I need to try and relax, so I fish my phone out of the pocket of my jeans and unwind the headphones. I’ve got a shit-ton of music stored on this thing. I set it to shuffle and lose myself in the anthems of my youth as I make my way along the midtown streets.

*    *    *

Club Minimal, 1984

[ [Circle Jerks - Question Authority] ](https://youtu.be/VFsK6KHxvKk)

 

_“Question, authority! How have they the right, to say how it should be?”_

It’s past my bedtime on a school night, and the Circle Jerks are playing an all ages show at this new club out by the college. I’m wearing ripped jeans and a dirty black t-shirt, running around in a circle and throwing out my arms with a spiraling mass of bodies as Keith Morris belts out the lyrics that will become a personal code for the rest of my life. It feels like being part of a human cyclone, a massive tornado that’s going to sweep across this city and carry away all the old bullshit.

_“Question, authority! ‘nother man’s law, is not right for me!”_

Yesterday I ran away for good. Camped out by the river and everything. My clothes are stained with red clay and I’m covered in mosquito bites but I’ve never been fucking happier. I’m fourteen and I can damn well take care of myself now. No more going back. No more compromises.

_“Is, this what, you want, to see?”_

_“Is, this the way, you want…”_

_“...things to be?”_

No more fucking teachers giving me shit in front of the whole class just because I don’t have any parents. I’m done with it. The schools. The receiving homes. The people trying to beat me into a mold I’m never going to fit into.

_“Question, authority! I’ll pay the price, the future belongs to me!”_

I’m finally free.

*    *    *

Soft yellow light spills out onto the pavement through the Starbucks’ tinted windows. Inside I can see the usual mix of yuppies, hipsters, and beleaguered government assistants--along with a few university kids from Sac State. Typical for a weekday evening.

Catching sight of my reflection in the dark-tinted glass, I pause for a moment. A ragged-looking kid stares back at me--a portrait of the youth I’ll never outgrow. Immortality fixed my physical age at around sixteen. I can usually pass for a few years older, but people tend to give me shit if I try to buy booze. My hair is a short, spiky mess of reddish-brown, buzzed close on the sides and swept forward on top. Used to be a flat top before it grew out. Strictly low maintenance, I don’t bother dyeing it or doing anything fancy these days unless I’m looking to make a statement. My eyes are a flat black, and the only things that really show my age. There’s a bitterness there that worries me sometimes, so I do my best to keep it at bay and live easy. I’m wearing an old denim jacket with the sleeves torn off, a row of metal studs along the collar, and a black and red circle-A patch where the left front pocket used to be. Beneath that is a threadbare, faded t-shirt for some band whose name and logo I can’t make out anymore, over a pair of black jeans that are now little more than patches and dental floss, and a pair of black steel-toed boots that I picked up at a garage sale for maybe ten bucks. They’re Wesco Firestormers, the kind guys in the forest service wear when they go out to take on wildfires. The olive-drab belt and shoulder straps of my alice pack complete the picture. I swiped it from an army surplus store about a decade ago, and it’s been pretty good to me since. 7/10 - Would steal again.

I scoff at the figure in the glass. Picture of a kid trying way too hard. The joke of it is, I’m not trying at all.

I don’t bother going in, just lean up against the beige stucco wall and pull out my phone. It’s funny. I remember when cellular phones were where the exclusive status symbol of rich stockbrokers and important political jerkoffs. Now the local shelters give them out to street kids. Not with service, of course, but it’s enough to make sure you can still dial 911 from wherever you happen to be now that they’ve gotten rid of all the payphones. Of course, when you’re homeless there aren’t a lot of situations than can be improved by having the cops show up. You’ve got to weigh the risk of being shot, tased, or beaten to death against whatever you’d be calling them for. If you’re lucky, they’ll just throw you in jail for a few nights and take all your stuff. Fucking civil asset forfeiture. A sturdy phone booth has saved my ass more times than the police ever did.

At any rate, I’m lucky enough to have scored a plan-less smartphone that’s only a few generations out of date. It may not have all the latest features, but at least the screen doesn’t crack when you stick it in your back pocket. A kid passing through on the train rooted it for me and hooked me up with software that lets me do most of the stuff I can do on the library computers, as long as I’m connected to somebody’s wifi network. She also encrypted it and installed a VPN so the cops can’t read what’s on it or track the sites I visit.

Mostly I use the phone to pirate books, music, and movies--but it’s also good for keeping in touch. There are a couple sites I frequent that the punk and squatter communities use to share information, arrange meet ups, and post warnings about potential psychos so kids hitching or couch surfing don’t end up on the 11 o’clock news. I log on to one and type out a quick bulletin with my thumbs: 

> Creeper Alert: Psycho Headhunter in Midtown Sac.
> 
> White guy, kinda tan. Dark hair, dark eyes, thick eyebrows.
> 
> Tall. Athletic build. Weird accent. (European?)
> 
> Wearing black leather trenchcoat. Slacks. Dress shirt.
> 
> Clean cut/Professional looking.
> 
> Details: Was hanging out behind the Bevmo on 17th & J. Dude comes up and introduces himself as “Dunkin’ McNuggets” or something, then pulls a katana out of his coat (srsly!) and starts swinging it around. Major serial killer vibe. Watch out for this whackjob if you plan on living a long time!

I look over the post for a moment. It’s vague enough to fly under the radar but should still tip off any immortal who reads it. Satisfied, I hit ‘post’ and then copy the message over to the other sites. As an afterthought, I shoot off IM’s to the handful of other immortals I know around here. The posts should snag their attention anyway, but I don’t want to risk one of us missing it and getting killed.

With that out of the way, I push off the wall and head south for a block and a half, before cutting west down Kayak alley--skirting the core of midtown’s nightclub scene and making my way to a small bookstore on 21st street. It’s not the central library, but it’s five blocks closer and still open. I’ve been coming here on and off since the mid 80’s. Used to worry they’d catch on to what I was, but either I’ve changed my look often enough or they’ve never bothered to notice. If you’re careful you can sit and read for a few hours while pretending to browse. Good a place as any to kill some time while I figure out what to do with the rest of my evening.

*    *    *

It’s around eight-thirty when I find myself back on the street. Some author gave a presentation tonight, and they always stay open longer for those. I didn’t pay much attention, just used the opportunity to slip back among the stacks and sit down. Found a couple of interesting books on philosophy. Could have loaded up my backpack, since they forgot to ask for it at the door, but as a general rule I don’t lift from the smaller places--especially bookstores. They have a hard enough time staying open as it is.

I hang a right back down Kayak and duck into the parking garage, looking for a place to piss. Most of the public restrooms in midtown are “for paying customers only,” and my bladder’s too full to stand around doing the pee-pee dance while some asshole decides whether or not to fuck with me about it. Total bullshit that the amount of money in my pocket or the way I look should affect my access to something the UN calls a basic human right, but that’s life on the streets for you. I find a car with government plates and hose down the driver’s side door handle. It’s the little things that make life bearable sometimes.

I’m making my way towards the exit when a black sedan comes rolling down L street, moving left to right across my field of vision. Instinctively, I duck behind a pillar. There’s something predatory about the way it glides along. Going way too slow. Like a patrol car looking for someone to hassle. The only other person in sight is a dark haired woman in a slate-colored blazer walking down the sidewalk that fronts the garage. She’s got her back to both of us. The sedan’s passenger side window rolls down and for a crazy second I think they’re about to pull up and ask her for directions. Then a thick, black cylinder emerges from the darkened interior. I realize it’s a silencer about the same time I see the plume of smoke erupt from the end like a chainsmoker blowing a kiss.

Silent my ass. The shots ring out like a nailgun at a construction site: Two cracking _pa-thwaps_ that echo off the concrete walls and ceiling of the parking structure, followed by a hollow thump as the woman’s body hits the pavement.

_Holyfuck._

It isn’t like the movies. There’s no squeal of tires as the killers speed off. They just coast silently by. Oh _fuck_ they’re stopping.

Then it comes. An itch. A whisper. A feeling that simultaneously pulls me towards and warns me away from the still form laying crumpled on the sidewalk. A tingling sensation breaks out across my skin like a swarm of insects or a 9-volt battery pressed to my tongue.

_Fuck me._

She’s an immortal. A new one. The old man always said the feeling was stronger when they die for the first time. It’s harder to pick up until then, but unmistakable when it happens--a sputtering life force suddenly erupting into an eternal flame. The car stops maybe thirty feet from her body, and a man in a dark suit starts climbing out. He’s got an axe.

* * *

End Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I can't believe I actually posted this. Wanted to wait until I had more written so I'd have a bit of a buffer, but seat of the pants is the best way to do punk anyway, right?
> 
> A few details:
> 
> * Duncan's cameo in this chapter may seem a bit off, but remember we're seeing everything through Mike's (the Main character's) lens. Things may not always be the way he initially interprets them. (And Duncan *does* have a habit of pulling his sword whenever he senses an immortal nearby. Doesn't mean he's taken up headhunting, just that he's cautious.)
> 
> * We'll see more of Duncan and some other Highlander characters as the story goes on. This fic may be focused on Mike and his circle of misfits, but a number of cannon characters do have a role to play.
> 
> * The violence is really going to ramp up in the next chapter. Honestly, I surprised myself a little with the level of gore. I don't normally write stuff like that, but stories have a tendency to take on a life of their own and apparently Immortals + Punks = some really gruesome deaths. So strap in.
> 
> * I could really use some beta-readers to help me polish up the chapters before I post them. I know my editing isn't the best and it is super nerve-wracking writing this thing in a vacuum. Feedback and suggestions are very much appreciated. If nothing else it keeps me motivated and working on the story.
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter: Bloodstains


	2. Bloodstains

[ [Agent Orange - Bloodstains] ](https://youtu.be/CeGusSQcrcU)

 

 _Goddamnedmotherfuckingsunnovabitchasshitfucking--_ _FUCK_ _!_

My mind explodes in a torrent of profanity, hurling expletives like shrapnel from a bomb as I dash across the blacktop and jump through a break in the two-foot hedge that separates the garage from the sidewalk. The guy with the axe freezes when he sees me, startled by the absurdity of a skinny punk suddenly leaping out of the bushes and barreling towards him. It buys me just enough time to scoop the woman off the ground and dart back into the parking garage.

My body may be stuck at sixteen, but when I need to I can be stronger than I have any right to be. Something the old man taught me, a way of pushing the body past it’s limits. I’m not sure if it works because the muscles and ligaments heal faster than the strain can damage them, or if it has something to do with the weird psychic bullshit that comes with being an Immortal. Either way it’s-- _Fuck!_

Searing heat flares in my shoulder as a bullet catches me in the back, slamming against my shoulder blade like a red-hot sucker punch. Guess I couldn’t expect that guy to stand there gaping forever. At least he’s not as good a shot against a moving tar-- _God_ _Damnit_ _!_

My breath goes out with a wheezing grunt as the second bullet pierces my lung and ricochets around the inside of my ribcage in a fiery zigzag. I push the pain to a small corner of my mind and will my body to keep working. My knees wobble and try to buckle for what feels like an eternity, but then I’m moving again--although my vision’s going hazy and my lungs feel like two wet bags of cement.

There’s a lot more to being immortal than getting back up after you’re killed, but most of us just rely on instinct and practice. Few really try to master the abilities that come with the ‘get out of dead free’ card. Old Man Chang taught me some of it. Right about now I’m glad he did.

The guys behind me don’t have any ‘buzz’ coming off of them. _Guys?_ I spare a glance behind me as I whip around a corner. Yep. Two. Black suits. Black Gloves. Black pistols. That part’s like the movies at least.

They’re mortals. But they know how to kill us. That is _really_ bad news.

She’s starting to wake up. I weave between a few parked cars, putting glass and steel between us and the shooters, then drop the mystery woman onto her feet and shove her forward with a hand in the small of her back.

“Fucking run!” I cough out through a mouthful of blood.

More shots behind us. A side mirror explodes next to me in a shower of glass and plastic. We haul ass around the outside of the parking garage, ducking low and sprinting full-bore towards the street where all this started.

_Please let it be unlocked._

“Go back around!” One of the thugs shouts out behind me. They’ve figured out what I’m up to, but it doesn’t matter--because their car is sitting right in front of me, with both doors wide open and the engine still running.

“Get in!” I shout, rushing past her with a final burst of speed. I dive head first through the open passenger door and scramble into the driver’s seat, banging my shins and tailbone on the armrest while hitting the quick-release on my pack and tossing it into the back seat. She jumps in after me and slams the door, just as the first of the gunmen reaches us. Another _pa-thwap_ echoes in the enclosed cabin of the car as I slam my foot down on the gas and a spray of blood erupts over the side of my face. Hot and stinging.

I glance over as we speed away and my stomach lurches. The shot went clean through, and the side of her head looks like something from a Gwar concert. Blood pours down out of the ragged exit wound, an oblong eruption of pink tissue and bone fragments still pulsing with the life that’s draining out of it. Her glassy eyes dart frantically as her mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

_Oh fucking christ._

Dimly, it begins to dawn on me that I’m flying towards the capitol in a stolen car, covered in blood, sitting next to a woman who’s just had her brains blown out, _and the goddamn passenger side window is still down._

“Hey, uh, wouldja mind rolling that up for me?”

The words bubble out of my throat with a nervous chuckle. Their high, reedy tone and the fact that I said them leaves me mildly alarmed. I can feel myself wavering on the knife edge of panic, so I concentrate very hard on easing my foot off the gas while I search for the control that operates the windows. It takes me a few seconds to find the bank of switches mounted in the driver’s side door, and a few more to find the right switch--but hey, I haven’t been behind the wheel in at least seven years. I’m lucky I remembered to…

With a low groan, I reach down and release the parking brake, nearly losing control as the car suddenly shoots forward.

By the time I pass St. Johns I’ve managed to get the window up and bring my speed down to something that won’t guarantee me a spot on the evening news. Now I’m busy trying to talk myself down from a total freak out.

This was a public hit in the middle of town. And they must have known what she was and how to kill her or else why get out of the car with a fucking axe? Mortals hunting immortals. _Fuck!_ Are they Watchers? That’s happened before, but how would Watchers know about a proto-immortal who hasn’t died yet? Unless this isn’t her first time? I reach over and check under her coat. No sword, but then I don’t carry one either.

The hit men could be working for an Immortal who identified what she was, but then why have _them_ take her head and waste the quickening? Granted, a newbie wouldn’t have much to offer, but accumulating power is the whole point for these headhunter types. Even the littlest bit might give them an edge over someone else down the line. It doesn’t make sense. But mortals? Hunting Immortals? With guns? That’s bad. We can’t sense them coming, and they’re everywhere. There’d be no way to protect yourself. Even holy ground wouldn’t be safe.

And I just made myself a target by jumping into the middle of this.

_Goddamnit._

Capitol Park begins to pass by outside, dark and ominous through the sedan’s dark tinted drug-dealer windows. We’re safe for the moment, but I need to get to one of my stashes so we can change clothes and get cleaned up. Then I need some answers.

I hang a right onto 12th and then a quick left into the alley separating the two old office buildings that take up this half of the block: a u-shaped high rise overlooking the capital and a rectangular four-story from the ‘20s that faces the old cathedral on K street. The recent economic clusterfuck means that most of those offices are empty, so it’s a decent enough place to try and drop out of sight.

I park under the second fire escape on the high rise side and rummage through the glove compartment. Not much. Just some papers and an unopened package of hand wipes. I shove the papers into my backpack, then clean off my face in the rearview mirror and try to wipe down every surface that I’ve touched. I don’t bother trying to clean up the blood. There aren’t nearly enough wipes and we don’t have the time.

She’s still out, but after steeling myself to check I can see that her wound is nearly healed. Whoever this lady is she’ll be up again soon, and there’s things I need to do before that happens. Glancing around to make sure the coast is clear, I get out of the car and climb up onto the hood. The fire escape ladder is a good two stories off the ground, but with a leap from the top of the car and a kick off the wall I manage to snag the bottom rung and pull it down. The hard part is dragging the mystery lady out of the car and carrying her up the ladder without anyone seeing.

Five stories up there’s a black garbage bag, double layered with the top folded over to keep out the rain. Over the years I’ve made a lot of stashes like this. Inside are some clean clothes and other supplies. The kind of stuff you might need if you’ve just been jumped, and don’t want to call attention to yourself by walking around looking like something you’d find in the ER waiting room. I’ve just finished transferring some things to my pack and pulling on a pair of black sweats over my bloodstained clothes when she bolts upright with a sudden hoarse intake of breath.

_Okay, here goes._

“Hey,” I say, knocking a second cigarette out of my pack and lighting it with the one that’s already in my mouth, “want a smoke?” Her eyes dart back and forth, trying to make sense of the situation while her mouth works at giving me an answer. It reminds me uncomfortably of that moment in the car right after she got shot.

“What? I… no, I don’t smoke… who _are_ you?”

Well, so much for my attempt at being smooth. With nothing else to do with it, I put the cig in my mouth beside the first one and take a long, double-barrel drag. The smoke catches in my lungs where the bullet wounds are still healing, and I nearly cough myself off the small metal balcony of the fire escape. I can feel one of the slugs rattling around in the bottom of my right lung. I’ll have to hock that up later, and I’m not looking forward to it. Recovering a little, I shrug and flick the extra cigarette over the side. With any luck it’ll start a fire and burn this whole fucking city down.

“Name’s Mike.” I say, slumping against the railing with my back to the fifty foot drop. “Friends call me River Rat.”

A sculpted eyebrow leaps up. “Like the raft rental place?” she asks, face quirking into an expression somewhere between incredulousness and distaste.

“Yeah, but--I had the name first.” I didn’t. They beat me by about six years, but I don’t like to admit it.

“Sure kid.” She responds with a little laugh and a roll of her eyes. “You’re what, fifteen?” Her eyes suddenly go hard and her face grows serious. ”Now mind explaining how the hell I got up here?”

That’s the bitch of permanent adolescence, nobody ever listens to you or takes you seriously. I try to help, and now here I am getting the ‘stern teacher’ look from a chick who’s probably half my age. She’s hit a nerve, so I decide not to sugar coat it.

“Saw you get shot outside the parking garage over on 21st and L.” I spit back with a glare, my attitude probably doing nothing to counter her impression of me as a surly teenager. “Guys doing it looked like pros. I got you out of there before they could finish the job.”

I watch as she tries to mentally digest what I’ve told her. You can see in her eyes the moment it doesn’t take, and comes surging back up like mental vomit.

“Shot? I couldn’t have been shot.” She glances down at herself, there’s a hole and a pretty good sized stain down the front of her shirt where one of the bullets punched through. Must have severed an artery or nicked the heart on it’s way out. Her hands snap to her chest and then to her right temple where the last bullet caught her. They come away covered in tacky, drying blood--but of course the wounds have healed up by now.

“What’s going on?” She demands angrily. “Am I being Punk’d?!” Eyes dart around, searching for the cameras.

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

Goddamned reality shows. I’ve never had to give a new immortal ‘the talk’ before. So far it doesn’t seem to be going well.

“Listen, this isn’t a prank. I know it’s hard to believe, but one of those guys blew your fucking brains out. The only reason you’re still here is because you’re an Immortal, like me.”

Her eyes go wide, then narrow. I’m about to segue into the rules and how it all works, but she cuts me off. “Wow. Okay, how many drugs are you on?”

Well shit. Looks like I’m going to have to show her. She keeps talking as I glance around, looking for the best way to do it.

_Should I jump?_

No. Highest thing I’ve ever fallen off of is the I-80, and that’s only about two stories. Besides, that time I got lucky and had a Mack truck break my fall. There’s more ways to lose your head than just getting it chopped off with a sword. If I drop five floors and spread my skull across the alley like a watermelon, that might be enough to end me for good. Besides, I’d prefer an example that’ll leave me conscious and not get blood all over my clothes _again._

A scene from an old TV show flashes through my mind, along with a spectacularly bad idea.

“Just hold on a sec,” I say, holding up one hand and reaching into my back pocket with the other, “I’ll show you…”

If I’d been paying attention, I probably would have noticed her right hand edging towards her purse. As it is, the faceful of pepper spray catches me _completely_ by surprise.

Pepper spray? This shit feels like bear repellent. The fuck was I thinking?

_Well dumbass, you were thinking you’d reach into your back pocket, take out the small folding knife you keep there, and jam it through your hand to prove that you’re immortal._

I try to push back the pain like I did with the gunshots, but either it’s harder without shock helping out or I’m all tapped out of spirit juice. Instead, the spray tears into my face like an angry wolverine, and in my haste to get away from the fucking hornets filling up my sinuses, I manage to flip myself over the railing.

If you’ve ever considered committing suicide by jumping off a building, I don’t recommend it. Not only does the trip down take way longer than you’d expect--giving you plenty of time to evaluate the poor choices that led you to this moment--but the deafening wet crack as your head hits the pavement and splits open like a fucking egg is _not_ the kind of music I’d want to go out to.

On the plus side, it turns out falling five stories and crashing headfirst into the blacktop _isn’t_ enough to permanently kill an immortal. She’s just climbing down off the fire escape when I open my eyes, and the look of mortified horror on her face slowly changes to baffled incomprehension. As I slowly try to sit up, there’s a sound like wet velcro being pulled apart and my stomach decides to tuck and roll. I turn just in time to projectile vomit into a huge puddle of gore that must’ve been my head a few moments ago. The sight makes me hurl some more.

“Fuckin’-- _hwuurrghk!--_ fuckin’ told you.” I manage to gasp out between heaves. At least I don’t feel the slug rattling around in my lung any more. Must have come out when I hit the pavement. Five floor Heimlich. Nice.

“You believe me now?” I ask angrily, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve and turning to face her.

She nods in mute acknowledgement.

“Remember getting shot in the face? ‘Cause you left a hell of a mess in the car if you wanna’ check!”

Another nod that turns into a headshake halfway through. Yes she remembers, no she doesn’t want to check.

“Not as bad as this--” I continue, sweeping an arm towards the fan-shaped spray of gore and vomit behind me, “--but on a scale from _My Little Pony_ to _Scanners_ you rated at least a _Pulp Fiction!_ ”

I’m pissed, and taking it out on her. It’s not fair. Should’ve expected her reaction. Christ, what would I think? One minute you’re walking along the sidewalk and the next you’re waking up on a fire escape with some crazy street kid talking about immortality. ‘Hold on, I can prove it. Just let me get my knife out of my back pocket!’

_Stupid._

I’m beginning to see why the old man played it the way he did--just hanging back and watching. Giving me time to figure things out for myself. Of course, I didn’t have a pair of clued-in hit men on my ass.

 _Fuck_ , we really need to get out of here.

Looking up at her, I notice my backpack dangling from the fingers of her left hand. I hadn’t put it back on yet when I fell, so she must have grabbed it before heading down.

“Look,” I say, managing a contrite grin, “sorry. I guess we’re both having a pretty fucked up day.”

I glance around. Fortunately nobody’s come to investigate yet, even though I’m pretty sure I screamed my head off on the way down. If nothing else the car’s GPS will bring someone eventually--and whether it’s the cops or those two hit men we probably don’t want to be here when they show up.

“We need to go before someone spots us,” I continue, “I’ve got a friend who can pick us up, get us somewhere private where we can talk this out. Have you got a cell phone I can use?”

Everybody has cell phones these days. What I’m really asking is: ‘Will you trust me enough to hand over yours?’

“You don’t have a phone?” She asks suspiciously.

_Guess not._

I spread my arms. “Do I look like I’ve got fifty bucks a month to blow on cell time? Christ, for that money I could get a monthly transit pass and go talk to people in person.”

She gives me a narrow-eyed stare, appraising. Whoever this woman is, she’s smart enough to keep it together in the face of what she’s just seen and streetwise enough to question my motives. After all, the only thing she knows about me right now is that I can get back up after falling off a fifth floor balcony.

“Monthly passes cost a hundred. Unless you meant one of the student ones.”

“I’d need a fake ID for that.” I grumble, looking back down at the pavement. “I’m older than I look.”

_A hundred bucks? Fuck. When did everything get so goddamned expensive?_

There’s a soft clicking noise, like a camera shutter or a really cheap padlock being opened, and I look up to see her holding out a silver iphone.

“Just don’t drop it, okay?”

I wipe my hands off on the front of my sweatpants, conscious about getting blood on the touchscreen.

“Great, thanks.” I say, taking the phone from her and dialing Helena’s number. “There’s another hoody in my pack. You should put it on so nobody notices the state of your clothes.”

Helena answers on the sixth ring, she’s reliable like that.

“Hey Hel’, it’s Mike. You good to drive?”

She’s also a big advocate of medical marijuana--so it never hurts to check.

A low, smoky voice rolls back to me over the phone. “Hey River, how ya’ doin’ kid?” Helena is one of the few people that can call me ‘kid’ without pissing me off. Helps that she’s been around since the 1700s.

“It’s one of those days.” I answer with a weary sigh. “Got a newbie with me and we really need to get somewhere less public. Any chance you could swing by Capitol Park and pick us up?” Soft, good natured laughter drifts through the receiver. Helena sounds like I imagine a black auntie would. One who’s amused by your foolishness rather than angry, because she knows it isn’t her problem.

“Sure thing kiddo. I’ll be there in five.”

“ _Awesome._ ”

Across from me, my mysterious newbie has just finished pulling the oversized sweatshirt on over her blazer. Really need to ask her her name soon.

“The state of _my_ clothes?” she huffs sarcastically, gesturing towards my blood-soaked sweats. The dark fabric just makes it looks wet, rather than something out of a splatter flick, but that won’t help if I lean up against anything before it dries.

“Oh, and Helena?” I add quickly over the phone.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe put down a tarp.”

She laughs again, and hangs up.

We slip out of the alley onto 11th, holding our pace to a jog so that we can move quickly without drawing attention. Nothing suspicious about a couple of folks in sweats jogging across L street to the park at nine pm. No sir. Certainly nothing to do with those cop cars screaming around the corner at the opposite end of the block.

Of course, the battered military pack doesn’t exactly scream ‘yuppie jogger,’ and the fact that she’s wearing it doesn’t help. The key to going unnoticed is looking _normal_ , fitting into all those bullshit stereotypes and expectations so you don’t stand out. Wearing a hoodie is suspicious enough these days, but a backpack breaks the unspoken jogger dress code, especially when it looks like something out of a Vietnam war documentary. On a man, people might just shrug it off as a soldier on leave or a vet trying to stay in shape--but people don’t think of women as soldiers, so the sight is bound to set off ‘non-conformist’ alarms in people’s heads.

Christ, it’s like _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. I keep expecting some stiff in a suit to walk out of the capitol building, point at us, and start screeching. Still, it was either that or have me wear the pack and get blood all over it. With any luck people will mistake the wet patch covering my shoulders and a good portion of my back for sweat.

We cut across the lawn and into a stand of trees. Trying to stay as invisible as we can to the street traffic--particularly the flashing light variety. _Damn._ I wish I’d had some way to get rid of all the DNA evidence we left back there. But that would’ve practically required nuking the block, and contrary to what the media likes to say about anarchists, I’m not in the habit of carrying bombs with me.

The good news is the cops _probably_ don’t have my dna on file, so they’ll have nothing to match it to until the next time I fuck up and leave my blood and stomach contents all over a crime scene. Still, I scuff my feet as we cut across the grass. I’ve managed to keep my boots clean enough to not leave a trail of bloody footprints behind me, but I don’t want to take any chances. Modern forensics can be a real pain in the ass.

Our pace slows as we enter the Civil War Memorial Grove, lingering in the protection of the two-hundred year old trees that block our view of the crowd gathering on the street--and their view of us. My nerves are drawn tight. This isn’t like getting caught up in a mugging, where the cops will just stick the report on the bottom of the pile and the perps will lay low. A shootout in midtown? Car dumped a block from the capitol? Blood everywhere? Bodies missing? That kind of thing gets attention. Gets politicians and bureaucrats to assign special task forces. Gets the FBI and other scary three-letter-agencies brought in, depending on who’s involved and who they _think_ is involved. Homeland Security will probably stick their nose in too, since the government loves to blame everything on foreign terrorists--despite the fact that like ninety percent of the terror attacks in my lifetime have been committed by white guys who were born and raised here. Whoever hired those hit men is going to be looking for us too, just as hard as the cops.

 _Shit. Now all we need is for the press to catch on, so we can be_ _totally_ _screwed._

“So what’s your name anyway?” I ask her, trying to take my attention off all the worst-case scenarios threatening to explode my recently healed skull.

She turns to me, dark eyes appraising. I want to admire the way she’s handling all this, keeping her head (heh) and remaining skeptical rather than writing me off as a nut or blindly accepting everything I say--but mostly I’m just annoyed that she doesn’t trust me. Makes everything more difficult.

“I’m Rachel, Rachel Bhatia.” She says at last, extending a hand for me to shake. “I’m an investigative journalist.”

_Well shit._

Before I can finish comprehending my sudden arrival in fucked-city, a familiar tingle dances up my spine--alerting me to the presence of another Immortal. Rachel feels it too, judging from the way she suddenly grabs her gut and grunts, head snapping up with an ‘oh shit’ expression plastered across her face.

“Ngh, what the _hell_ is that?”

“Hopefully our ride,” I answer. “Come on.”

As we sprint to the edge of the grove, I spot Helena’s camper through the trees, moving slowly down Lincoln on the opposite side of the park from where we entered. It used to be an old 1940s school bus, but it’s hard to tell with all the modifications and bodywork. Now it looks more like a cross between an armored car and a food truck.

A moment later she spots us and comes to a stop, waving an arm towards the back of the bus. I throw open the doors and we bolt up into the cramped workspace the makes up the back end of the RV. It’s packed with tools and welding equipment--all carefully tied down or strapped in place. As we pass into the living area, I hear the bolt slam home in the door behind me. Automatic locks. Helena’s safety conscious like that, and enough of a gearhead to have rigged them up herself--just like most of the camper. Though I hear some of her old army buddies helped out with the original conversion after the war. The one against Hitler.

The living area looks like an old cabin, floors, walls, and ceiling paneled in wood. There’s a long couch against one wall, and an old-fashioned bathtub bolted to the floor opposite it. Rachel drops down onto the couch and I grab one of the steel handholds mounted in the ceiling as the camper lurches forward and roars back into the sparse evening traffic.

“You sure she’s okay to drive?” Rachel whispers to me, wrinkling her nose at the pungent smoke that fills the small, dark space and glancing around. Next to the tub is a narrow sink, and mounted to the ceiling above it is what looks like a rectangular fish tank containing a miniature jungle of pot plants, dim light from the grow lamps spilling feebly through the thick mirrored glass.

Prop 215 or no, Hel’s one traffic stop away from making some cop’s career--but she never gets stopped. And it’s not just because of the license plate identifying her as a disabled veteran. Rumor is she cut a deal with Army Intelligence back during WWII, but Helena will neither confirm nor deny. All anyone knows for sure is that somebody in the government is pulling strings for her, and has been since at least the 50’s. Whoever it is, they must have some serious juice if they can keep the cops from hassling a black woman.

“Nah, she’s fine.” I say, gripping the handholds and bracing my feet as we take a turn at around Mach 3. There’s also a rumor she drove a tank at the Battle of the Bulge. She’s been driving _something_ ever since cars were invented, so when she gets behind the wheel I never doubt that she knows what she’s doing--and Helena isn’t the type of person to _get_ behind the wheel unless she’s in total control. She’s a hell of a lot more disciplined than me. Side effect of serving in the military, I guess.

“Didn’t bother with the tarp, Hel?” I ask, eying my clothes and the cream-colored sofa with trepidation.

“The floors’ll wash.” She calls back from the driver’s seat. “If either of you thinks you’re gonna’ mess up my cushions you can take the tub.”

You don’t argue with Helena. Especially not in her own bus. I shrug and swing myself into the bathtub, feeling a wave of quivering nausea break through me that I hadn’t realized I was holding back.

_Christ I’m exhausted._

All that healing really took it out of me. Not to mention amping up my strength and powering through a fatal gunshot wound earlier. Feels like I just ran a marathon after not sleeping for three days. There’s a limit to how far even Immortals can push themselves, and as the sparking grey fog clouds over my vision, I finally hit mine.

* * *

End Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Chapter 2 is up! (Holyshit.)
> 
> Now I guess you know why those graphic violence and swearing tags are on there, huh?
> 
> Looking forward to showing more of Rachel and Helena's personalities/characters. We've only really gotten a superficial glance so far, but I've been trying to keep the chapters short so there isn't too much of a wait and Mike passing out in the tub seemed like a good place to break for now.
> 
> Also, I really want to thank MitzyBlue for her help on this. Her insight and advice has been invaluable, especially when I know how hard she's working on her own fics. You should really check out her stuff, it's awesome!
> 
> Finally, I'm still looking for beta readers! If anyone's interested, you can leave a comment or contact me through my tumblr at http://smokesandspades.tumblr.com/ If nothing else, you could consider it a free early-access pass to the google docs page where I type this crazyness up. XP
> 
> Stay tuned for chapter 3! What crazy, horrible crap will I throw at these poor bastards next?!


	3. Seekers of Truth

1986

[ [Seekers of Truth - Cro-Mags] ](https://youtu.be/xQn9ebWabec)

 

We’re hanging in Freddie’s basement, listening to the Cro-Mags on his parents’ stereo. Freddie’s pretty cool. He cut class so we could hang out. Beats throwing rocks into the river by myself again. Plus he knows where his dad hides his beer. The guy’s a major alcoholic so he never notices when we swipe a few.

“So dude, how do you know Old Man Chang?”

Freddie’s question is so off the wall, it takes me a second to respond.

“What? You mean that old Chinese guy that hangs around Old Town? I don’t know him. Seen him around, that’s all. He’s kinda famous among the old bums or something.”

“Well he knows you man. He’s was asking about you outside the show last Friday.”

“For real?”

“Totally. Dude had you pegged--from that haircut all the way down to those ratty ass clothes you wear.”

“Hey, bite me Freddie, okay?” I give him the finger to emphasize my point.

“Woah, chill man. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

We drink in silence for the next few minutes. Well, as silent as it gets with apocalyptic heavy metal growling out of the speakers like a toxic mudslide.

Why the hell would some old bum be looking for me? It’s majorly weird. I ran away to get away from old people’s bullshit, it’s not like I make a habit of hanging out with them or anything. Almost wish I did, or at least had payed a little more attention. I know I’ve heard of Old Man Chang before, but fucked if I can remember the details.

Whatever.

If this guy wants to start something he can come get his ass kicked. What I didn’t learn about fighting in school, I sure as hell picked up these last two years on the street. That Karate Kid shit is fun to watch, but all you really need to win a fight is to go in harder and dirtier than the other guy--and not let up ‘til they know not to fuck with you.

“You know, we’ve got a washing machine.” Freddie says suddenly. “You could use our shower if you want, and I can do your clothes while you’re in there. Mom makes me help with the laundry sometimes, so I know how to work it.”

There’s something oddly hopeful in his tone, but I don’t get why. What do I need clean clothes for? It’s not like I’m going to church or the bank any time soon, and they’d just get muddy again when I wade back to camp tonight. And why would Freddie care anyway? What is it about people in the system always thinking that everybody wants what they have? Like clean clothes and a hot shower and a roof over your head are worth putting up with all that authoritarian bullshit.

I glance down at myself. It would be nice to wear something that isn’t all stiff and rank for a change. Maybe a shower would be a good idea.

*    *    *

I’m sitting alone at a picnic table down by the river. The park is empty this time of day. Everyone either at work or at school. Even the other bums and crusties are hanging out somewhere else. Fine with me.

Things didn’t work out with Freddie.

It made sense at first. I mean, I tried, but I was never really that into girls--so that had to mean I was a faggot, right? That’s what my ex-girlfriend called me, after she got tired of waiting for me to jump her bones and decided to ditch my ass for somebody who would. So then Freddie--

It started off slowly at first. He’d skip school and we’d hang out at his place. Listen to music. Drink his dad’s beer. Then I’d take a shower while he washed my clothes with his, and I’d go. Sometimes we’d watch R-rated movies. Sometimes he’d take off with me before his parents got home, and we’d go out and get into trouble. We met up at shows and stuff on the weekends too. I liked him a lot, so when he suggested we try fooling around, I went along with it. Pretty soon _that_ was our routine.

Beer. Music. Shower. Sex. Then off into the world again. It was okay, it just wasn’t my thing. We never really went past third base, which was fine by me. I didn’t mind the other stuff, but the idea of sticking my dick up someone’s butt--or having them put their dick in mine--kinda’ grossed me out.

Freddie wanted more though. It’s like he was obsessed. Everybody our age seemed to be obsessed with it--whatever variety they were into. And the adults were all obsessed with trying really hard to pretend it didn’t exist. Not like we didn’t know they were all doing it too. Hell, one of Freddie’s friends caught their history teacher and the vice principal going at on the desk after class.

Music, movies, tv--it seemed like our whole society was focused on sex. And I was the only person who didn’t get it. I mean, what was the big deal anyway? Was I missing something? Doing it wrong? What? Not like I could ask anybody.

I let out a long sigh. I guess I’m not into guys after all. Or maybe I’m just not into Freddie. Too bad I couldn’t figure that out until I’d been into his mouth a couple times. But it’s not like I had any frame of reference for what being gay felt like. Eventually, we got in a fight over it. Now I’m here. By myself.

It’s fine.

*    *    *

River Bend Park, 1987

[ [Confessions - Violent Femmes] ](https://youtu.be/BOx5ROp99Xs)

 

I’m sitting across from the old man at my favorite table down by the river. Staring him down over one of those mini-boxes of cereal--the kind that open up into little bowls you can pour milk into. I don’t have any milk, but that doesn’t matter. The cuts from eating dry cereal heal fast enough.

I also don’t have any company, besides Old Man Chang. Maybe that’s what made him decide to come staggering up from the river to join me with his six-pack of beer.

“I don’t make a very good student _old man._ ”

I spit the words with every ounce of sneering rebellion I can muster. At this point in my life I’m still a petulant youth, completely disillusioned with the adults of the world and convinced they have nothing to offer me but lies and bullshit. If any of these geezers had the answers, then why is everything still such crap? And if they _don’t_ have the answers, what use is it to learn from them? I’ll figure things own on my own, thank you very much.

He just laughs, quirking his face into the lopsided half smile that will become so familiar to me.

“S’aright, I’m a _very_ good teacher.”

Something’s weird about this guy. And it isn’t just the strange, skin crawling feeling I get whenever he shows up. Or the way he’s been asking people about me for the last few months and following me around town. Or how he acts like a drunken bum, but every once in a while says something so dead-on you’d swear it was all an act and he’s really some devious mastermind--only to switch back so fast you aren’t sure it really happened.

I’m good at pissing people off. Cops. Teachers. Councilors. Principals. Social workers. The endless parade of fake parents. Sooner or later, I get under everybody’s skin. Push the right button. Make them lose it. And when they do, it proves how full of shit they are. All of them just wanting to control me. To mold me into their idea of what I should be. And when they can’t do it with words they get mad and try to _make_ me. And that _never_ works.

Once the yelling starts and it comes down to throwing shit and trading blows, I’ve won--because even if I can’t win the fight, I’m just too damn stubborn to die.

But this guy…

“Y’know,” the old man continues conversationally, taking a beer from his six pack and popping the top, “one time this king asked me ta’ train his concubines. Teach ‘em to be soldiers.” He takes a long, loud swig of his beer, then suddenly skewers me with a piercing, depthless stare.

“Teaching you about immortality will be much easier.”

_Wait, what?_

“First lesson…”

I don’t see him pull the knife. To be honest, I don’t even see him stick me with it. One minute I’m rolling my eyes, and the next I’m waking up in the grass with a butterfly knife sticking out of my chest.

“Fah, tha’s terrible. Even a mortal could stay awake with an injury like that. C’mere we’ll do it again.”

I can’t decide what makes less sense. That some old Chinese guy I‘d just met last week apparently _knows_ that I can’t die, or that he just stabbed me in the fucking heart and is now sitting calmly at the picnic table eating fruit loops with a metal spork.

_Wait, did he just steal my cereal…?_

My eyes dart up to his face, still wearing that drunken, self-satisfied grin. As though the whole world is a joke that no one else gets, but he finds mildly amusing. The old man lifts another sporkful to his mouth, and I can see the amber colored liquid dripping between the tines.

 _Did he seriously just knife me over a fucking box of fruit loops and then pour_ _beer_ _on them?_

With a shout, I yank the knife free and leap to my feet--lunging toward the old man in a blind rage.

Or at least, I would have if removing the knife hadn’t released a gout of blood that instantly makes everything from the top of my head to my fingertips go all numb and tingly.

“Lesson two,” I hear the old man chuckle as my vision goes dark, “always leave tha’ knife in. Corks up all that hot blood you’ve got.”

The blade falls from my limp hands, as I drop to my knees and slide into death for the second time that afternoon.

“Try ta’ hold on longer this time. If ya’ can wake up with a knife in yer chest ya’ can _stay_ awake while missing some blood.”

It’s going to be a long summer.

*    *    *

We’re hanging out under the Fair Oaks bridge. Just downstream from the fish hatchery. The old man is sitting on the bank of the river, dangling a line in the water from the end of a long stick. Trying to catch the salmon being released upriver. I’m standing, leaning back against the concrete pylon supporting the bridge. Arms crossed, one knee folded to press my foot against the wall. Still the petulant youth, but a little wiser by now.

“Everyone has energy flowing through them.” The old man is saying, still watching the water. How he plans to catch anything without lures or a proper pole is beyond me, but I’ve seen enough by now to suspect he actually knows what he’s doing.

“What, you mean like that yinyang stuff?” I sound bored. I can’t help it, I _am_ bored. As much as the old man’s lessons have taught me, and as much as I want to understand what we are and how it works, I just can’t get excited about standing around waiting for a fish to bite.

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. Qi, vitality--heh--spirit juice. What matters is that _our_ spirit juice flows differently than a mortal’s.”

I’ve gotten faster in the time he’s been teaching me, but I’m still not quick enough. Before I know it, he’s jammed the stick into the soft clay bank and lept up, hitting me with a series of jabbing pokes from the second knuckle of his middle finger.

It’s like something out of a bad kung-fu flick. The bitch of it is, it works. As my muscles spasm and charlie horse where he hit me, I feel a tingling numbness flow through my body from each spot--gathering rather alarmingly towards my crotch.

“In Immortals, the pathways that govern reproduction are looped back on themselves, fueling our own life force. We give up the potential for an endless line of descendents in exchange for the potential to live forever.”

It’s hard to concentrate with the sharp, pins and needles sensation of a leg that’s fallen asleep moving ever closer to my balls, but at the last minute the feeling changes direction--rippling up my spine and shooting off in tingling filaments. It feels like having a car battery hooked up to the base of my spinal cord.

“Because our energy is self contained, it remains tied to our bodies. That is why we heal even after our body dies.”

The feeling shoots up through my head and is starting back down when his fist whips towards my throat. This time I’m ready, turning and knocking his arm aside. I don’t bother trying to hit back. I’ve already seen the old man shrug off taking a baseball bat to the head. There probably isn’t anything I can dish out bare-handed that would even faze him. As his fist slides past my neck and I’m congratulating myself on finally blocking one of the old man’s punches, his middle finger shoots out to flick my adam’s apple--just as the strange, tingling numbness reaches that point.

I drop like a sack of rocks as cold, electric fire explodes in my throat.

“ _That,_ ” he said, staring down at me, “is where the knot is located that holds our spirits in our bodies. If it is severed or destroyed, your spirit will flee--just as it would for a mortal whose heart or brain has stopped.”

*    *    *

“We grow more powerful the longer we live. And the heads we take add to that power.”

*    *    *

“That is the Quickening. A spiritual connection that forms when another Immortal draws near, linking their life force to yours. If their spirit is separated from their body, it will seek out the nearest Immortal and join with them.”

*    *    *

“Our battle is not just physical. You must defeat your opponent’s mind and spirit as well as their body.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then they will continue to fight you, even after you take their head.”

*    *    *

I drift upwards from the dream, snapping fully awake as I notice the background buzz of two nearby immortals. It takes me a moment to realize where I am and remember what’s happened.

“Ohhhhh _fuck_.”

“Hey Helena, I think he’s up.”

“About time. I was about ready to come back there and turn the faucet on.”

There’s a creak of springs, and a soft zipper-like whirring. Then Helena’s face looms over me, dark, curly hair tied back in waves against the back of her neck. Lips pursed and quirked to the side in a look that tells me she’s still deciding whether to be pissed or not. She’s wearing a long purple blouse over charcoal grey slacks. Her left hand rests on her hip, cocking her elbow out to the side. Her right arm ends in a gleaming stainless steel hook.

“Hey Helena, thanks for picking us up so fast.”

“I was nearby. Now, mind telling me what you’ve got me involved in? That was an awful lot of sirens back there.”

I hold on to the sides of the tub and try to pull myself into a sitting position. The back of my sweatshirt has gone stiff with dried blood. It’s uncomfortable as fuck.

I lay it out for her as best I can. The hit men. The axe.  Realizing Rachel was immortal. Stealing the shooters’ car and barreling across town. I leave out the part where I left the parking brake on for the better part of two blocks.

She doesn’t look particularly happy when I’ve finished.

“Professional assassins, Mike? Really? You didn’t think that was worth mentioning when you called me?”

_Yup, she’s pissed._

“What, like I was supposed to talk about it on a fricking cell phone? We needed to get away before the cops showed up and I figured your bus would be the safest place we could go. It’s not like they’d stop you, after all.”

_Whoops, wrong move._

Judging by the way Hel’s eyes just widened, that was _not_ the thing to say. She shakes her head a moment, eyes closed and lips parted slightly. If I had to name the look, it would be ‘I’ve just heard the stupidest damn thing anyone’s ever said.’

“Mike, I’m _black_. I get stopped all the time.”

“But I thought…?”

“I let you kids spread that rumor because it keeps fools from trying to break into my bus looking for reefer. I’d rather let you scare yourselves off than end up shooting somebody’s baby in the dark one night. The police do enough of that.”

“Then, the cops?”

She sighs. Tilting her head back to look up at the ceiling. “Folks think you’re connected they leave you alone. _Cops_ think you’re connected they hassle you. Only reason I don’t get stopped more often is because I have good lawyers and a lot of friends in the community that I’d rather not have to leave behind just because you have a knack for finding trouble.”

I stare down at my boots in the white enameled tub, half expecting to see they’ve left scuff marks. They haven’t. Guess I’m not a _total_ fuck up. Yet.

“Sorry, I didn’t think about it. I should’ve known better.”

“Yeah you should’ve. Considering who taught you, I’m surprised.” She shrugs. “Too late now.”

With that observation made, she crosses over to the far end of the couch and lowers herself down beside Rachel. The same faint whirring noise accompanying her movements. The couch is one of those old-fashioned kinds, with the wavy back and only one armrest. Fainting couches, I think they’re called. Rachel stiffens and scoots over, leaving a cushion’s worth of space between them.

“Easy girl,” Helena says reproachfully, “I don’t bite.”

The reporter’s face darkens and she runs a hand through the black curls crowning her head. I don’t know what that style’s called, but I used to see a lot of latina girls wearing it. Like a 90’s take on Lucille Ball.

“Sorry,” Rachel is saying, “it’s just been a really-- _intense_ evening. I’m a little on edge.” She pauses, frowning as though working something over in her mind.

“Actually, I’m not sure how this all works but he _was_ just recovering from having his head split open when he called. Might not’ve been at his best.”

Helena raises one eyebrow and I suppress a groan. I hadn’t mentioned that part either.

“Oh?”

“He, ah, he fell off a fire escape.”

A small, perverse part of my brain wants to know what it looked like. I saw the mess, but I’ve never seen what actually happens to a human body after a fall like that. The movies never show death the way it really is.

“How bad was it?” It asks before I can stop it. Stupid brain.

Rachel’s mouth twists, uncomfortable. I get the impression she seen some shit before, journalists tend to get pretty desensitized, but I doubt she’s ever been in the position of having to describe someone’s gruesome death to the actual person who died. What are the rules of etiquette for _that?_

“Bad.” She says finally. “It looked--like someone had smashed a jar of strawberry jam and then thrown a rubber mask over it.”

_Yeesh._

I mentally bump ‘falling out a window’ and ‘shotgun blast to the face’ a little farther down my list of situations to be concerned about.

Helena turns to Rachel, her expression softening. “Sounds like you’ve had a pretty big shock, is there anything you need?”

I can’t help feeling a little left out.

Rachel shakes her head and gives a tight smile. “Maybe just some fresh air. No offense, but the smoke is kinda’ getting to me.”

Helena laughs. “Well, I wasn’t expecting company this evening.” She says, getting up and sliding open the door that separates the living area from the back entryway. “Actually, I was getting ready to turn in for the night.” She gestures towards the grow-box over the sink. “It helps me sleep, calms the nerves too. You ever go to bed and suddenly your foot starts itching?”

Rachel nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“Well it’s a lot tougher when there’s no foot for you to scratch. Phantom limb can be a real bitch.”

Rachel pauses, halfway through getting up off the couch. “Your leg too?” She asks, eyes darting to the loose slacks and incongruous pair of sneakers Helena’s wearing. A glimpse of sleek metal and pistons peer out where her left ankle should be.

“Yep. Left leg, right hand. Not at the same time though.”

She continues on into the back of the bus, and Rachel follows--a thoughtful expression on her face. A moment later Helena’s head reappears in the doorway.

“Hey River, you coming? Or are you going to keep sulking in my bathtub?”

“I’m not sulking.” I reply sulkily, scrambling out of the cast-iron tub as Helena’s laughter recedes through the open doorway.

*    *    *

“So, how does it work?” Rachel asks finally, breaking the silence that’s stretched between us for the last ten minutes or so.

The three of us are standing around the long-term parking area of the Amtrak station. It’s technically not ‘the edge of town,’ but you’d be forgiven for thinking it was with the vast expanse of dirt stretching out on the other side of the tracks. It’s isolated, and with the miniature badlands to the north, the river to the west, and the freeway overhead, you only have to watch south-east to keep an eye out for trouble.

Helena tilts her head in my direction. “You found her, River. This one’s on you.”

I sigh and flick the ash from my third cigarette, the other two forming the beginnings of a pile next to my left boot.

“Do you mean ‘how does it work’ like the mechanism behind it? Or do you mean like an instruction manual for living with it?”

She shrugs. “Both, I guess? I mean, we’re not vampires or anything, right?”

I roll my eyes. “No, we’re not vampires. You don’t need to drink blood or eat brains or anything like that. Though you do still have to eat. I mean, starving to death won’t kill you, but it’s damn uncomfortable.”

My stomach gives a growl like an angry dog, but I do my best to ignore it.

“For the most part, we’re just people.”

“People who don’t die.” She says warily.

I nod. “And who heal fast. Like Wolverine without the claws or the metal bones.”

“Or the enhanced senses?”

I stare at her.

“What, girls can’t read comics? There’s been like six movies with him anyway, it’s not exactly insider knowledge anymore.” There’s a challenging glint to her eyes that makes me like her a little bit more. An attitude that says: ‘This is who I am, can you handle it?’ Reminds me of old friends.

“Right.” I say, acknowledging her point.

“But we can’t regrow missing limbs?” It’s more of a statement than a question, made with a furtive glance at Helena.

Hel’s mouth gives a twist. “Been trying for about two-hundred and fifty years. I’ll let you know if it pans out.”

You can see Rachel doing the math in her head. Her eyes are ridiculously expressive--like windows into her brain.

“So then how old are--”

“I’m forty.” It comes out harsher than I intended. Guess I’m still pissed off. When you spend so much of your life being angry, after a while it just feels normal.

“Wow, okay. Listen, my hotel is right across the street--”

“Bad idea.” Helen and I say together. Rachel glares at us crossly.

“I know it’s dangerous. If someone’s after me, my hotel room would be the first place they’d look--but I can’t keep going around like _this,_ ” she exclaims, pulling on the dark sweatshirt for emphasis. “I’ve got blood in my _hair_ for crying out loud. If someone sees me like this they’ll call the police.”

“You’re worried about the police?” I ask, my eyes narrowing. I’ve got plenty of reasons for wanting to avoid the cops, but I don’t expect regular people to share them.

She looks at me like I’m stupid.

“I’m a brown-skinned woman with a foreign-sounding last name,” she begins.

Her skin looks pretty pale to me, but I don’t say anything. Neither does Helena, though I can _feel_ her eyebrows raise at the comment.

“My great-grandfather immigrated from Pakistan, which as far as most white people are concerned makes me a terrorist. And my grandmother immigrated from Mexico, which makes me an illegal immigrant in their eyes. On top of that, I was just involved in a shooting-- _and_ a carjacking--and I can’t explain what happened, how I got away, or how I got _blood_ all over myself, and I don't have any injuries so ‘I was attacked’ isn’t going to carry a lot of weight in the interrogation room. So no, I’m not eager to talk with the police right now. Besides...”

She glances down at the pavement, as though uncertain whether to continue. When she looks back up her eyes have a sharp, calculating look.

“Is the hit men thing normal for us? Like hunters or something?”

I sigh and shake my head, momentarily obscuring the world with a wall of white smoke.

“Not, really. Not like that anyway. Most normal people don’t know about us. Or if they do they’re either friends or afraid they’ll get locked up if they try to tell anyone.”

I drop the last of my cigarette, crushing it out under my heel.

“There was one group, back in the 90’s, the Watchers.”

“What, like an anti-immortal hate group?”

“No, they’re more like--historians. Or paparazzi. Bunch of creepers following us around, documenting our lives. Supposed to have been going on for centuries, but they were always so cloak and dagger about it we never found out.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened in Germany in the thirties?” Helena asks dryly. “Some asshole rose to power who thought it would be a great idea to wipe us all out. And they tried.”

“Yeah but it tipped their hand.” I add in quickly. “By the mid-90’s just about every Immortal knew about the Watchers. Most of us figured it was safer to not let on, let them think they still had the jump on us--but a few tried taking the fight to them. Almost kicked off a war, but it turned out to be just one faction that was responsible for the killings, and by the time the dust settled they’d been purged--either by angry Immortals or their own people. The Watchers have been chill for the last twenty years, and most of us just keep on acting like we never knew.”

“So you don’t think it was them?”

My stomach growls again, sending sharp, rippling pains shooting through my abdomen like a back alley knifing.

“Honestly? I don’t know who the fuck it was. They could have been Watchers, or they could have been working for another Immortal. Some of them hunt that way but--”

Too late I catch myself. I’ll need to explain quickenings and the Game to her eventually, but I’d prefer to get a better sense of her first. Telling some stranger that cutting off your head _could_ be the fast track to godhood is a good way to get decapitated in your sleep. Anybody might be tempted.

“--fuck, for all I know it was just a couple of serial killers who get their rocks off shooting women in the back and hacking them up with an axe.”

Rachel’s eyes narrow, their calculating look growing so intense I swear I can see _gears_ behind the lenses.

“Wait, why would another Immortal want me dead?”

Helena cuts in, “Why did you ask if it was normal for Immortals to be chased by assassins?” she asks pointedly. “What was it you were about to say before you changed the subject?”

Rachel looks like a kid caught fibbing about what happened to their homework.

“Right, thaaat…” A chagrined expression crawls across her face. “It’s about this story I’m working on. You heard about that Senator from San Francisco, got busted last year for buying weapons from a radical group in the Philippines?”

Helena nods slowly. “Leland Yee.”

Hearing the name, my head snaps up. “Right, he was that asshole who kept pushing all those gun control bills, and supported Schwarzenegger on that bullshit law that would have outlawed selling violent video games to kids. Then he got busted smuggling fucking missile launchers into the country for the Tongs”

Rachel shakes her head. “It wasn’t the Tongs. Undercover FBI agents bribed him to set up the sale and bring the weapons into the country. Then they arrested him for it--but I’ve got a source that says the weapons disappeared after the trial. I think somebody in the federal government used Yee as a fall guy to cover their own smuggling operation. That’s why I’m here in the state capitol, I’m trying to track down where the guns went.”

* * *

End Chapter 3

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! Woo! Only like a week later than I'd planed!
> 
> Sorry to keep everyone waiting. Had a serious case a writer's block in addition to finally working through my buffer. Thanks alot to everyone who's been reading this, especially CherryZero, Olisska, and MitzyBlue for leaving kudos and comments! It really helps to know people out there are enjoying this story, I can honestly say that kept me working when I wanted to just throw up my hands and leave it.
> 
> Also, props to genteelrebel and their excellent fic "Adam and Joe" for the idea about challenges between Immortals being more than just a physical contest.
> 
> And yes, Mike is asexual. I didn't intend to go into quite so much detail about his youthful sexual experimentation, but sometimes the story goes places you didn't expect. Guess it's time to add some more tags.
> 
> Disclaimer: Some plot elements for Highlander: The Punkening are based on real events, such as the arrest of California Senator Leland Yee on weapons trafficking charges. Names have not been changed. Fuck the guilty. However, this story is a work of fiction, and anything not included in the public record should be assumed to be wholly fictitious, and not intended to portray or imply anything about anyone. The author has no knowledge about these events beyond what he looked up on Wikipedia, and absolutely no money--so, y'know, don't waste your time on a defamation suit.
> 
> The next few chapters will probably take a bit longer, but who can say what my unpredictable muse has in store? Who is behind the mysterious assassins? How will our heroes find out? Will Mike ever stop putting his foot in his mouth? How long will it take me to write this one!? Stay tuned for Chapter 4!


	4. A Cry for Help in a World Gone Mad

[[A Cry for Help in a World Gone Mad - Agent Orange] ](https://youtu.be/4SHIEKeubCM)

 

“Fuck.”

Helena’s face mirrors my sentiment, her expression going stony and distant.

“Into the bus. _Now._ ”

Her voice is soft, but with a steely tone of authority even I don’t think to question.

With rogue Watchers or Immortals who break the rules, there’s still a limit to how far they’ll go. They need to stay in the shadows, and only have so many resources they can bring to bear. A government conspiracy is a completely different beast. The state doesn’t understand the concept of limits, and isn’t afraid to do it’s dirty work in broad daylight. Even if it’s just a single piece of the government that’s after you, the different factions are always more on each other’s side than they are on yours.

There aren’t many _countries_ that can stand up to a world superpower--let alone three Immortals. If that’s really what we’re up against, we are well and truly fucked.

Not that we won’t go down fighting hard.

We take turns washing up in Helena’s tub, picking clean clothes out of a basket of donations she’d collected for a charity drive. Hel’s always doing stuff like that. ‘Community outreach,’ she calls it--picking up where the system leaves off. Guess she figured our need was more immediate. I manage to find a black Avengers t-shirt with a stylized letter ‘A’ superimposed over the circle of Captain America’s shield.

The symbolism isn’t lost on me. Nor is the irony.

“Do you think they realized what they were doing when they made this?” I ask Rachel, staring down at the shirt for maybe the thirtieth time. Helena hit up a 24 hour drive-thru for some fast food. Now Rachel and I are sitting on the couch eating off a pair of folding tv trays while she sits up front making phone calls.

Rachel quirks an eyebrow, looking over the design.

“Probably,” she answers lightly, “Cap isn’t really pro-establishment anymore, so much as anti-fascist. He stands for American ideals like liberty and the American Dream, even when it means going against the government.”

“Wait seriously?” I’m stunned. The last Captain America comic I remember reading, the ‘bad guys’ turned out to be a bunch of working stiffs protesting unfair taxes. It made them out to be bumbling, greedy, terrorists who burned down a nursing home to try and blackmail the government. When confronted, their leader tries to burn an American flag and ends up setting his headquarters on fire instead. Cap saved the flag and left the guy to burn alive, then gave a big speech about how America isn’t free and you can’t just expect things to be handed to you.

“When the hell did Captain America get cool?”

“It started in the 70s, I think.” Rachel answers, scrunching her face and looking up towards the ceiling. “Around the time of the Watergate scandal. Rogers got really fed up with corruption in the government and started calling himself ‘Nomad’, because it means ‘man without a country.’ He went back to being Captain America after like, four issues, but ever since then he’s been adamant that he stands for the people and not the government. In fact he’s straight up fought against them when he thinks what they’re doing is wrong. He even led the anti-registration forces during the Civil-War story arc.”

“Huh.”

There’s a strange feeling in my chest. Like swallowing a big spoonful of peanut butter, or watching the sun set at the end of a really bad day. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to realize that _Captain America_ might actually be on my side for a change. Fictional or not, it’s hard growing up without heroes. Even harder when the only characters you can see yourself in are the villains. The whole world telling you you’re bad because of the way you look, the way you think.

The way the people with power stomp on you.

The creak of old seat springs and the nearly inaudible whir of Helena’s bionic leg announces her return.

“Any luck?” I ask, glancing up.

Her face tells me the answer.

“I caught some friends on the other side of the ocean as they were getting up. Nobody’s noticed any unusual activity among the Watchers, and if one of us is breaking the rules it hasn’t hit the rumor mill yet. I’ll have to wait ‘till morning to check with my friends on _this_ continent,” Hel says, glancing meaningfully at her watch, “at least if we want to catch them in a helpful mood. I don’t know as many night owls as you do, River.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I hardly know anybody anymore,” I reply sullenly. “By the way, did you get my message about that headhunter?”

Hel’s mouth gives a wry twist. “Yes, and I doubt he’s behind this,” she answers, “he’s one of the friends I tried contacting in Paris. His name is Duncan MacLeod, and I doubt _the Highlander_ would appreciate you calling him ‘McNuggets’ to his face.”

Oh. Shit.

“The Highlander?” Rachel blurts out incredulously, “What is this guy, a Toyota?”

“He’s Scottish,” Helena says by way of explanation, “about a century older than me, and he’s been a warrior of one sort or another for most of that time. A real old-fashioned honor and chivalry type.”

“Yeah,” I cut in, “and if half the rumors are true, he’s one of the most dangerous motherfuckers in the Game. Jesus christ that was _him?_ ”

Helena gazes down at me with a mixture of sternness and amusement I’ve only ever seen on the faces of older Immortals. Maybe if I make it past my first couple centuries I’ll figure out how to do it.

“He’s a friend, River. And he’s got an in with the Watchers that could be a big help to us, regardless of who’s behind this. We need an information network working on our side. I’ve got his cell number. I’m going to call in the morning, see if I can set up a meeting-- _on holy ground._ ” She adds, raising a hand to forestall my next interruption. “In the meantime we all need to lay low. Will she be safe at your place?”

“Should be,” I answer with a shrug, “cops still don’t know about it. Not yet anyway. Chris said he’s going to file with the courts on Monday, and we’ve beefed up security just in case. ‘Till then it should be quiet.” I shrug again. “Quiet as it gets.”

Helena nods slowly. When she’s in ‘serious soldier mode’, she’s like something out of a 90’s action movie. I half expect a pair of black shades to materialize over her face.

“Good,” she says, turning her gaze to Rachel. “You should consider changing your look so you won’t be recognized as easily. I’m sure someone in River’s building can help you with that.” There’s a slight twinkle of humor in her eyes when she says that last part. “Might be a good idea for you too, River.”

“You tellin’ me to get a haircut?” I ask with mock-attitude.

Her mouth quirks to the side. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Rachel turns to me as Helena heads back to the driver’s seat. “So, you have an apartment?” She asks. “No offense, but I kinda’ got the impression you were homeless.”

“It’s a squat.” I tell her. “A group of us took over this abandoned office building, fixed it up. We’re going for an adverse possession deal. Chris could tell you more. He’s the legal expert of the group--his older brother’s a lawyer.”

I watch her nod, as though filing the information away for later. I’m reminded that she’s a reporter, but honestly my brain is too saturated in stress chemicals for me to be capable of worrying about it much. Hopefully I’ll be able to convince her that keeping immortality a secret is in everyone’s best interest before she gets too set on breaking the story of the century.

“So what’s the deal with this Duncan guy? Why did you call him a ‘headhunter’ earlier?”

Well shit, back to the _other_ topic I’m trying to avoid. I take a minute to collect my thoughts and plan out an approach.

“Ok, so you know how we can’t regenerate missing limbs?”

She nods patiently and I suppress a grimace. It feels _so fucking weird_ to be in the position of ‘teacher.’ I’ve spent most of my life hating teachers. The only real exception I made was for the old man, and I _still_ wanted to kick his teeth in half the time. Bracing myself, I continue.

“Well, that makes beheading one of the easiest ways to kill one of us for good. It’s not so much decapitation as having your _body_ chopped off, from a healing perspective. And since it doesn’t grow back, you’re fucked. Dead for keeps. Finito.”

“And the headhunter thing?”

A sigh escapes my lips. Looks like I’m not going to get out of this one. Guess I’ll try some damage control. No way am I telling this chick about quickenings right before bringing her over to spend the night.

“Well, say you’re an immortal…” She rolls her eyes. Christ, was I this annoying? Nah, probably worse. “...and another Immortal fucks you over. Robs you, kicks your ass, whatever. You can’t really go to the cops. For one, there might be some stuff that’s hard to explain, like why there isn’t a hole in your face where you’re claiming this guy shot you.”

She gives me a narrow-eyed look for that, but I keep going.

“Second, what are the cops gonna’ do if they believe you? Lock the other guy up? Big fucking deal. Worst case, he’s bored for a few decades. If he decides he’s done or doesn’t want to go in the first place all he’s gotta’ do is get killed. Nothing simpler. Fight back when they come to arrest him and go all ‘suicide by cop’, or piss off his cellmate and it’s shank-city. Cops think he’s dead, case closed. Then he busts out of the morgue and comes looking for you.”

I pause for effect, letting that bit sink in and setting up for the next.

“Worst case scenario, he stays in there long enough for somebody to notice he’s not aging.”

That gets her attention. You can see the wheels turning. She instinctively knows it’s bad but hasn’t put together exactly _why_ yet. I tell her.

“What do you think happens if mortals find out about us, on their terms, rather than ours? Experiments. Witchunts. Pure fucking panic. Once somebody finds out about one of us, it won’t be long before they find out there’s more. Then we’re all up shit creek without a raft, let alone a damn paddle.”

She gives another slow nod. Thinking it over. Looking for flaws in my reasoning. Cynical. Smart.

“So you can’t rely on police or the justice system to settle disputes.”

“Right.”

She’s being polite, waiting for me to drop the other shoe even though I’m pretty sure she’s guessed it. So I oblige.

“With most people, if you don’t wanna’ turn to the law, the other option is violence. But for people like us, getting knifed or shot is an _annoyance._ And a lot of these guys, they’re old. They’ve had everything done to them twice, and they come from a time where duels to the death were an acceptable response to being insulted.”

“So they duel?”

“With swords usually, yeah. Some of them even go around challenging other immortals just for the fuck of it--because that’s what swordsmen _did_ back in the day. They call it the Game, like it’s a fuckin’ tournament or something. Guys with centuries of experience going at it to see who’s the best. Or whose dick’s bigger, I dunno. I don’t get people like that.”

“You don’t get fighting?” She asks with a laugh and a raised brow.

“I’m a _pacifist._ Violence is a tool of the state. It’s the essence of trying to assert your will over somebody else’s, strip away their autonomy. Doing it to control somebody I kind of understand. It’s selfish and it’s fucked up, but I get why people do it. Fighting to the death just to see who’s better at it? That’s fucking nuts. Especially for people you have to go out of your way to actually kill.”

I don’t think she buys it, but it’s enough of an answer for now. Apparently. I’m sure she’ll hit me up for the rest of it later.

“So this Duncan--Highlander--person. He plays the game?”

“Not exactly, I dunno. I don’t really know the guy, just what I’ve heard--and not all of that goes together, y’know? Some people say he doesn’t go looking for fights, other people say he systematically hunts other Immortals down. Everybody agrees he’s killed a lot of us--including Immortals who were a lot older and more notorious than him. I say _were,_ because they’re dead now, and he’s the one of the most notorious Immortals under a thousand.”

“Wait, a thousand years old? Are there really immortals who have been around _that_ long?”

“Yeah, and they’re fucking terrifying. You had to be a seriously bad dude to make it out of the middle ages with your head still attached. We’re talking about people who grew up when raping and pillaging were normal pastimes, and beheading was one of the _nicer_ ways you could get executed. Guys who were _legendarily_ bad news. Like Genghis fucking Khan with a bad case of hemorrhoids: ‘Form a circle and kill every last thing inside it’ type shit. And from what I’ve heard? This Duncan’s _killed_ a few of those guys, so what does that make him?”

Rachel hooks a thumb back towards the front of the bus. “Your friend seems to trust him. Used words like ‘honorable’ and ‘chivalrous’ if I’m not mistaken.”

I shake my head. “Chivalry’s just another word for sexism. Treating women like delicate prizes to be protected and fought over, instead of treating them like equals. And honor was just an excuse for stuck-up nobles to murder people over the slightest hint of injury to their fragile little egos. Your medieval knight in shining armor riding in on a white horse is really just an over-privileged jock in a shiny sports car beating people up because he thinks it’ll get him laid.”

I catch myself ranting, try to pull it back. It’s a testament to how stressed I am that I’m going off like this. I’ve made all these rants enough times over the years to know that it never works. Nobody listens when you’re pissed off. But trying to act all calm and reasonable in the face of such unreasonable bullshit feels fake as hell, so usually I just keep quiet.

“Look,” I say, regaining my composure, “a lot of Immortals carry swords. I don’t, but Hel used to. It’s a lot more common with the older ones. Some only fight when they’re challenged. Or when someone pisses them off. Others go around challenging every Immortal they meet. The real bad ones go after the people you care about, trying to break you down psychologically before going in for the kill. But they’re all basically serial killers, even if they claim they’re only doing it in self defense.”

I take a deep breath. If I’m honest with myself, it’s not just the assassins or the subject matter that’s got me so worked up. It’s the realization that I just had a close encounter with a guy who’s basically the fucking _boogeyman_ of the Game at this point. _Watch your step or the Highlander will get you!_

“Hel says this guy’s a friend. Okay. But all I really know about him is what happened when I ran into him earlier tonight.” _Christ, did all that happen tonight?_

“What happened?”

I drop my voice to a whisper, suddenly conscious of the fact that Helena’s technically within earshot. The engine’s pretty loud, runs on diesel, but Immortals tend to have good hearing, since our eardrums keep repairing themselves back to peak condition--just like everything else in our bodies.

“Just a few hours before I ran into you, I met Hel’s knight in shining trenchcoat in an alley. I sensed him. He sensed me. Then he pulled a sword and challenged me. Just like that. She may trust him, but I _don’t_ \--and neither should you. That guy is fucking dangerous.”

She takes a moment to digest that. No doubt weighing the different opinions she’s heard and making up her own mind. Christ. Being a teacher is fucking frustrating. You can’t just download knowledge and understanding into your student.

_Well, there is one way._

“Okay, so why is it important that the meeting is on holy ground? Helena said it like she thought that would make you feel safer or something.”

Once again I’m getting caught up in my own thoughts while Rachel charges ahead without me. Guess I spend too much time in my head. I’m so used to retreating there because everything around me is such fucked up bullshit, it’s becoming a reflex.

“It’s part of the Game. It has rules, but Immortals have been known to break them. Like any rules they only have power as long as people agree to follow them. One of those rules is ‘no fighting on holy ground.’ Any holy ground, regardless of denomination. Churches and graveyards are big favorites, but a Buddhist shrine or the spot where an old Indian burial ground used to be will work in a pinch. There’s a _lot_ of superstition and tradition tied up in that one, and a lot of the old Immortals are pretty damn big on tradition. I’ve never heard of anyone breaking it, but I’ve also never seen anything to indicate there’s any more to it than a social contract. After all, if someone did break that rule, the smart thing would be to keep quiet about it. Keep your edge, and not have to worry about other Immortals deciding to gang up on you in order to bring you down--despite the _other_ rule that says our challenges should be one on one .”

“You’re pretty cynical.” She says.

“Thank you.”

I don’t tell her the other part. That most Immortals are _afraid_ to fight on holy ground. Like they might bring divine wrath down upon themselves if they tried. I don’t tell her that I’ve felt-- _something_ \--when setting foot on holy ground even before I turned Immortal, and that I’m not entirely convinced it’s all in my head. I take that whole ‘no gods, no masters’ thing pretty seriously. If there is somebody in charge of all this, they’re a fucking asshole. I won’t dignify their bullshit by acknowledging their existence, but a part of me is deeply afraid that god exists--and he’s a sadistic, fascist prick.

Sure would explain a lot.

*    *    *

Five minutes and twenty questions later, we’re standing in a parking lot as Helena drives away, and Rachel’s got a look on her face halfway between wary and incredulous.

“This is--?”

“Yeah, right across the street. The parking garage where you got shot is just on the other side.” I say, gesturing towards the back of the four story office building that looms in front of us. White walls alternate with beige and rows of inky blue tinted windows, all piled on each other like a layer cake of soulless corporate banality.

Looks can be deceiving.

There’s an entrance to an underground parking garage at the corner of the building that’s farthest from the street, but it’s closed off by one of those metal shutters--the kind you see on storage units, or shops at the mall when everything starts closing down. Or going out of business. Hefting the garbage bag with our dirty clothes in it, I make my way to a small white door and punch in my security code with one knuckle. At the top of the door it says “Hind Site - Employees Only” in small block letters.

“1-1-1-1?” Rachel asks as I shoulder the door open, “Isn’t that a little easy to guess?”

“It’s about as secure as any other four-digit code,” I answer, stepping into the dim grey space and leaning against the door to keep it from closing. Beyond the doorway is a small landing connecting two long flights of stairs--one on the right going up to the higher floors, the other on the left, descending down to the sublevel and garage. Straight ahead is a third set--a short, broad flight of concrete steps leading up to the lobby. The only light comes from the emergency exit sign over the door.

“Besides,” I add casually, “it isn’t really 1-1-1-1.”

“It’s not?” Rachel asks, her tone and expression dripping with skepticism.

“Nope.” I let the door close and make my way up to the first floor, which for some reason is set above ground level. “It’s ‘A-C-A-B.’”

She cocks her head to the side like a bird, working it out. A light in her eyes says 'it’s the letters on the pad' while a small, scandalized smile says 'I know what that means.'

Another door, another keypad, same code, and we’re standing in the first floor lobby--a huge, open hallway tiled in faux-granite, with a bank of elevators in the middle and a security desk set to one side of the big glass entrance. Rachel stops when she sees the lumpy, pot-bellied figure slumped in the chair, security guard’s cap pulled down over his face.

“That’s just Bob.” I say, punching the call button for one of the big steel freight elevators. “Officer Bob. You can meet him in the morning.”

We take the elevator up to the third floor. Or the fourth, if you’re counting from the sublevel. Second from the top, more or less. Rachel slumps back against the far wall as it rises.

“This place doesn’t look like a squat.” She says tiredly.

“That’s kinda’ the point.”

“You said something before about ‘sensing’ immortals. Is that what I felt back in the park?”

I nod. “You get used to it. Try to avoid looking around when you feel it. If you sense another immortal in a crowd, the easiest way to spot them is to find the guy who’s glancing around like they’re looking for somebody.”

She nods thoughtfully, and we lapse into silence.

I’m tired.

The nap in Helena’s tub helped, as does my perpetual youth, but it’s late even by my standards--and it’s been a long-ass fuckin’ day.

The elevator doors open on a dimly lit space. Slate grey walls, polished cement floor, and black pillars holding up a paneled ceiling, each square painted a different color and arranged in a series of pixelated designs.

“The bathrooms are around the corner,” I explain, pointing down the wide corridor that fronts the elevators--then gesturing towards the empty reception area in front of us. “The rest of it is through here.”

There’s a plastic bin on the receptionist’s desk, filled with a staggering variety of doorknobs. Some are in the original packaging, others are in plastic bags or bundled together with rubber bands. Each has a key and a little round sticker with a number on it.

“Just pick one,” I say quietly, picking up a screwdriver from beside the box, “and look for the room with the same number. You can swap out knobs or rooms later if you want, but this makes it easy to find one that isn’t taken without going around trying every door and bothering people. You’ll probably want one of the ones with an ‘F’ on it. That means it’s one we’ve managed to get a bed for, or at least some blankets and a pillow.”

“Oh,” I add, handing her the screwdriver, “and put this back on the desk once you’re done.”

She glances at the screwdriver, then at me. “Where will you be?”

"I’m in number ten,” I say, hooking a thumb in the general direction before turning back toward the bathrooms. “Corner office at the back of the building, just past the common area--two rights and you’re there.”

I don’t go back to my room. I take the elevator up to the fifth floor. It used to be some bullshit executive suite maybe half the size of the rest of the building. We converted it into a greenhouse. Fresh vegetables and flowers grow in rolling, multi-level planters set up along the floor-to ceiling windows. More planters hang from the ceiling. A scattered assortment of old couches, lay-z-boys, and beanbag chairs fill out the center of the room.

I make my way past a tangle of tomato vines, and push open the door that leads to the roof. I need a fucking cigarette. Need about ten, with all this. Leaning back against the greenhouse wall, I light up and try to let my thoughts drift as I burn through the last of my pack.

*    *    *

1989

[ [She Rides the Night - Danzig] ](https://youtu.be/qC-W0_cv85E)

 

The first time I met Helena, I was at a show. Danzig’s new band was devouring the stage in a long slow burn, more metal now than punk, but still good. I was 19, but my new I.D. said 21, and I was going to make the most of it.

It had been a _long_ fucking year.

A long couple of years really, since the Old Man started teaching me. I’d learned a lot though, which is why I immediately recognized the feeling as I moved toward the bar. It takes a minute to narrow it down. I’m still having a hard time pinpointing a direction but I have to admit all those damn ambushes the Old Man’s been pulling have helped.

_There._

It’s a black chick, hunched over the bar in a leather biker jacket and surplus army pants. Her hair is dyed purple, and done up in a knotty sort of mohawk that reminds me of cypress trees. An empty glass lies turned over on the bar next to her, and she’s gripping a bottle of dark amber _something_ in her left fist like her life depends on it.

I don’t know why I do it.

She’s an Immortal, and judging by her posture and how little booze is left in that bottle she’s not in the mood to talk to anyone. I should walk away. But that coat’s too short to hide a sword and I’m fucking _stoked_ to meet another punk who’s immortal. Or is it another immortal who’s a punk?

Whatever.

So here I am, trying to talk to this chick like some skeezy pick-up artist or something. At first she gives me a glare that could level buildings, so I back off and order a drink--only to realize I have no fucking clue how to order a drink at a bar. I’ve got twenty bucks saved up, a fucking fortune, and no way am I wasting it on _beer._

I guess she takes pity on me. Or maybe she’s just hoping to get me so wasted I won’t be able to bug her anymore. Either way she orders another bottle and rolls the empty glass my direction. Just as well, whatever she’s drinking costs way more that twenty bucks a bottle. And _fuck_ is it strong.

After a while we get to talking. Danzig. The Misfits. Punk and politics and the bullshit the cops have put us through. She’s got better stories than me. I’ve never been lynched before. I’ve also never followed a patrol car around with a loaded shotgun and a bunch of friends, getting out and quoting legal statutes at them every time they try to hassle somebody. The Black Panthers sound like something I would have liked to have been a part of. But they’re gone. Like Martin Luther King and the Dead Kennedys and Lyon Wong and most good things these days.

We dance around the subject of immortality. Neither of us wanting to admit what we are in such a crowded place, with so many ears. But she’s slipped a few times and dropped details that let me know she’s _old_. I should be worried.

Am I _sure_ she doesn’t have a sword?

No.

But I’m not picking up any hostility, just a bone-deep weariness I’m getting to know all too well.

The show winds down, and we’re getting ready to leave, when I realize I never asked her her name. I finally do just as she’s getting up from her stool, turning to reveal the black Misfits shirt under her jacket, white skull logo leering back at me. A moment later I notice her right hand.

I glance back up quickly. Guiltily. Trying not to stare at the metal hook protruding from her sleeve. She catches my gaze and I brace myself, expecting her to be angry, or offended. She just smiles, whatever we’ve been drinking still sloshing behind her tired eyes.

“Call me Helena.” She says.

I get the joke, but I’m still too nervous to laugh.

We’re walking down an alley when it comes. ‘The buzz.’ Her back goes stiff and my head whips around, half expecting it to be the old man leaping out of the shadows like a goddamned ninja again.

It isn’t.

A blonde guy in a beige trenchcoat says something I don’t quite catch, and I realize I’m still drunk as fuck. God _damnit_ , why did I leave the gun the Old Man gave me back at camp? Helena steps in front of me with slow, careful steps--only wobbling slightly.

“Go on River,” she says, “I’ve got this asshole.”

I hesitate, just long enough to realize the Old Man hasn’t turned me into a totally selfish survival engine yet, then I sprint down the alley as fast as I can. After the first corner my curiosity gets the better of me, so I spring up a nearby fire escape and make my way across the roof until I’m overlooking the alley, just out of sensing range.

They’re still staring each other down. He’s got a sword, she doesn’t. I want to help, but without my gun I’m _fucked_.

It happens so fast I have to replay it in my mind to be sure of what I saw.

He lunges, going for a easy overhead strike to split her open across the chest and leave her defenseless for the neck stroke. She catches the blade with her goddamn hook, snapping it off and driving it into the side of his neck with one lightning-fast motion. The Old Man taught me about vertebrae. Getting it between them like that so it sticks out the other side would be hard enough with a blade that has a handle and a hand that has fingers, let alone a broken piece of steel and a hook that doesn’t even have a functioning wrist joint. This chick is _really_ good.

She says something to the guy that I can’t hear. Then she braces a knee against his chest and pulls the blade towards her with a quick jerk, sweeping the edge horizontally through the flesh and popping his head off like some kind of demented bottle opener.

I’m still staring at the mess when the alley erupts in lightning.

* * *

End Chapter 4

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's number 4! A little longer this time, hopefully that makes up for the slower turnaround.
> 
> Super big thanks to Mitzy Blue for helping me out with this chapter (and some stuff for next chapter), and to Barbex and my mystery guest for leaving kudos! Thanks you guys!
> 
> Also, it has come to my attention that I may have been over-cautious with some of my tagging and warnings for this work. Particularly the amount of violence and the incredibly brief mention of technically underage fooling around. What do you guys think, should I take the underage tag and the warning at the top of chapter 2 off and not worry about it? Or keep them and hope I don't drive too many readers away by overselling things? I'm trying to find a good balance here but since I'm new to the community I don't have a real good sense for where to draw the line.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and feel free to leave feedback or comments. And I hope you all look forward to the next chapter, where we get to meet some of Mike's fellow squatters, as well as "Officer Bob."
> 
> Yay! More characters to juggle! (sobs in a corner)


	5. This Could Be Anywhere

[ [This Could Be Anywhere - Dead Kennedys] ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfnOFvZvEuA&nohtml5=False)

 

Slowly I become aware of my surroundings. I’m in the greenhouse. My head and shoulders are buried in one of the overstuffed beanbags, one arm thrown over my eyes and the rest of my body sprawled out across the bare concrete floor. We tore up most of the carpets when we moved in. Easier to maintain. Don’t have to worry about stains or mold or insects. Used some of the carpet scraps to soundproof the basement, so we can hold shows down there without getting busted over a noise complaint. Or for having live music without an event license. Stupid regulations. They made those laws to try and drive the all ages scene out of the city. Hell, to drive _punk_ out of the city. But you can’t beat something that’s already underground by trying to outlaw it, no matter how sneakily you go about it.

Rule One: Learn to understand your enemy.

The cops have never understood punks, so they’ve never been able to completely beat us--despite all that money and power backing them up.

I remove my arm from my face and sit up with a groan. The morning sun battles with fog and clouds to slant through the tall glass windows…

...shit.

I don’t know whether Rachel’s an early riser or not, but nobody’s likely to sleep late on their first night in a strange place. Especially since I don’t know what kind of sleeping conditions were available in whatever room she picked. We’ve tried to scrounge together what we can, but most of us are used to sleeping rougher than a reporter who stays in nice hotels. That place by the train station may call itself the ‘Vagabond Inn’ but it’s practically a palace to someone who’s actually lived on the street.

Point is, if she’s not up already, she will be soon--and I’m not where I said I’d be. At least I remembered to stash the bag with our bloody clothes in it before I fell asleep. Still hoping I can save that vest, and at least recover some of the patches from the pants.

I snag a tomato off one of the vines and eat it raw, biting into juicy red flesh like an apple as I head for the elevators. Fuckin’ _love_ tomatoes, especially Janey’s. Way better than the watery-tasting crap they sell at the supermarkets. With my newfound ability to survive fifty-foot drops, I’m tempted to take my chances hopping down the stairwell to the lower floor, but even a couple stories is liable to hurt and I don’t want to have to explain the mess if I fuck up.

On the way down my mind returns to Helena, slipping back into the reminiscence of the previous night. My first time meeting the one-armed immortal. My first time witnessing a quickening.

I remember her telling me it isn’t always like that. It takes a lot of power for a quickening to produce a visible display. The full lightning show is usually reserved for guys who’ve been around for at least a few centuries and had been pretty active about taking heads. I asked the old man about it once. He said something about spiritual energy rarely manifesting on the physical plane. Basically it only happens like that when somebody powerful loses their head and the Immortal who did the chopping isn’t able to fully absorb the energy right off. It’s also the mark of an incomplete victory. A powerful immortal who thoroughly defeats their opponent can usually absorb the quickening with a minimum of fuss. It’s when you beat somebody who’s out of your weight class or fail to make their spirit fully submit to yours first that things get interesting.

Not that you can actually see spiritual energy. The lightshow is really just a side effect of all that invisible power lashing through the air, fighting against the victor’s control and looking for a conduit.

The elevator doors open. Hope is coming around the corner from the bathrooms as I step out.

Hope is sort of like the unofficial den mother of our group. She’s a middle-aged hippy. About the same age as me, actually--though she doesn’t know it. Time has made her slender form wiry and her sun-tanned skin thin and creased, but she still carries herself with the kind of dignity and willowy gracefulness you’d expect to see in an Aleive commercial.

“Hey Mike, I noticed we had a new doorknob up this morning. You bring somebody in last night?”

She’s also sharp eyed and really fucking intuitive.

“Yeah, she up yet?”

Hope leers at me cheerfully. “She huh? What’s a matter, your girlfriend didn’t wanna’ share space with all those books you’ve got stacked up in your room?”

I make a disgusted noise somewhere in the back of my throat. Not _this_ shit again. Hope’s always trying to hook me up with somebody. Doesn’t get that I’m not interested. Hell, even if I was, I’m literally a middle-aged man in a teenager’s body. The only people my own age who’d want to date me are fucking pedophiles, and going for somebody as young as I look would make _me_ the child molester. Just as well I’m not into dating or hooking up or any of that bullshit.

“She’s not my girlfriend.” I tell her. “Just somebody I ran into who needed a place to stay. And since you didn’t know it was a ‘she’ I’ll take that as a no.”

Hope gives me a sympathetic smile. “Oh well, I’m sure you’ll find the right person someday.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Or punch her in the teeth. She’s sweet but I’m getting really fed up with her patient refusal to accept that not everybody is looking for someone to pair up with. What makes it worse is that she’s so understanding about every other orientation _besides_ Ace. Gay, Bi, Trans, Poly, whatever--as long as you’re actually interested in some type of partner she gets it. But it’s like she legitimately can’t fathom the idea that somebody might not _want_ that kind of relationship. Blame it on the hippie obsession with love.

“But you know, you really shouldn’t have offered someone a room without running it by the rest of us first. We have to be careful, you know?”

I shrug. “Well I would have but all you fuckers were asleep when we got in. I’ll bring her around for a meet and greet later. Besides,” I add, lying through my teeth, “she won’t be any trouble.”

With that, I half-sprint through the reception area and make my way down the hall towards my room, scanning the doors for a new knob in the process. The first turn takes me to one of the two main common areas on this floor. It used to be a big open area full of cubicles, but we broke most of those down for plywood. Instead there’s a few folding tables scattered around, surrounded by office chairs, paint buckets, and bean bags. I spot Rachel sitting at the far end, staking out my door. She’s hunched over a cup of coffee like a vulture and wearing a bemused expression on her face.

I hurry to join her, weaving around tables and chairs with a skill born of long practice. Avoiding scattered furniture is nothing compared to pushing your way through the crowd at a show or a protest rally. Or a riot.

“Hey, you been up long?”

“Still not up.” She replies in a gravelly tone, taking another sip of her coffee.

“All right.” I say, settling in beside her. “Well when you wake up let me know so I can show you around and introduce you to everybody.”

A few minutes in I get bored, so I get up, get out my key, and head to my room. I crack the door just wide enough to slip through and then fling it shut behind me, hitting the pop-lock on reflex. I’m a private guy.

Like Hope said, my room is crammed with books. Stacks of them piled up around what used to be a conference room. In the middle is a rat’s nest of old blankets and scavenged cushions. Like most of the residents here, I have to do a lot of emergency straightening up when there’s an inspection. Fortunately those are few and far between.

Chris and his brother do a good job of helping us fly under the legal system’s radar, and that includes code enforcement. Technically the building is zoned for ‘mixed use’--meaning commercial and residential--so in theory there’s no problem with converting the offices into apartments and letting people live there. But if we admit that’s what we’re doing, we’d find ourselves up against a whole host of regulations and requirements that an office building doesn’t have to deal with. Just like the government to make it harder for people to _live_ than to do business. They’re happy to arrest squatters and bulldoze homeless camps under the banner of ‘unsafe conditions’, but don’t give a shit if your only alternative is freezing to death in a gutter somewhere. They don’t care about safety, just protecting the system of money and power that signs their pensions.

I kick my way through the clutter to the mini fridge in the corner opposite the door. Inside is a half-empty box of frozen microwavable burritos. I snagged them from the Raley’s out by the West Sac post office last week, part of a grub run with Rubix. I never feel bad about lifting from supermarkets, those places throw away tons of food--literal tons--just to keep their shelves looking stocked and plentiful. It’s all fucking marketing. ‘Ooh, look at all the shit we have!’ Then about half of it goes in the dumpster at the end of the day, because they stock the shelves with more than their customers actually buy. Sure, you could go all ‘freegan’ and wait to pick it out of the trash--but why risk food poisoning from something past it’s date that’s been sitting in a dumpster all day, or cuts from broken glass and can lids, when you can just take it off the shelf like a regular human being and know that there are crates full of more in the back waiting to replace it?

Fucking grocery stores. If there weren’t so many greedy assholes in the world, hunger and homelessness wouldn’t be a problem.

Snagging a couple frost-covered burritos, I make my way back across the tangle of blankets I call a bed. I probably could have gotten a mattress in here, or at least a cot or hammock, but honestly I prefer sleeping like this. At this point I’ve spent more nights huddled in makeshift bedding than I have in an actual bed. Hell, the Japanese sleep on mats on the floor. ’Normal’ is just whatever you’re used to.

As an afterthought, I rummage through the locking file cabinet that doubles as a dresser and grab two packs of cigarettes, a holster full of throwing knifes, and a folding pocket knife to replace the one I lost when I fell off the fire escape.

Shit, I hope the cops don’t find it and think to dust for prints. Those are definitely in the system. Then again, how much good can my fingerprints do them? I’ve been off the grid for damn near thirty years. An old CPS case file and a juvie record isn’t going to tell them much. The system doesn’t even know if I’m still alive.

I strap the throwing knives on under my shirt and throw a jacket over it to cover the outline. No sense taking chances. The knives don’t have the stopping power of a handgun, but they’re easier to conceal--more a distraction or deterrent than a lethal weapon. I coat the blades in chilli oil to add an extra ‘fuck off' factor. They aren’t likely to kill anyone--unless they’re allergic to peppers--but it’ll make a fucker think twice. Besides, sometimes not killing is the point. I wasn’t lying when I told Rachel I was a pacifist. If I’m forced to use violence to defend myself, I’d rather do it in a way that has as little chance of killing someone as possible.

With Immortals, an injury that impairs is usually more effective than one that kills them outright anyway. You put a blade in an Immortal’s heart and they’ll be back up in a few minutes--but slash a hamstring or stick a chili-coated knife in their bicep and they’ll be limping or struggling to lift a sword for a lot longer. The ones who haven’t learned to control their healing process instinctively prioritize the serious injuries, and let the minor ones slide. That’s why it usually takes them longer heal a papercut than a gunshot wound. Helps us blend in, but it’s immensely exploitable.

Of course, with how successful the Highlander’s been in the game, there’s a good chance he knows more than the average headhunter. If nothing else, he’s probably picked up a few tricks through the quickenings he’s absorbed.

I’ll have to be careful.

I give Rachel a little wave as I lock my door back and head for the kitchen to nuke my burritos into something resembling edibility. There’s a stack of paper plates on the counter and some coffee left in the pot. I snag a plate and leave the coffee. I can sleep just about anywhere, but as a general rule, once I’m up I’m _up._ Thank my teenage metabolism for that--and for my ability to live off junk food with minimal consequences. Besides, if I’m gonna drink something that tastes like shit and makes my face pucker up it damn well better be alcoholic.

By the time I join Rachel at the table again she’s looking more alert.

“So,” she says as I sit back down, holding her coffee cup in both hands and hunching over it as though for warmth. Her eyes fix on mine through the curtain of steam. “Hind Site.”

She says it like a statement, but I hear the question behind it. Questions. It catches me by surprise, and for a second I scramble to figure out where she heard the name. Did one of the others tell her? Then I remember the lettering on the back door. Sharp, observant, and a good memory for details. Must be a hell of a reporter. My esteem and wariness of her increase in equal measure. Maybe I should have had some coffee after all. I could use an edge here.

“It’s the name of our nonprofit.” I tell her, once I’ve caught up to the conversation. “Chris’s brother helped us set it up. Gets us out of having to pay property taxes--among other things. Technically it’s the non-profit that’s occupying the building--or we’re occupying it on it’s behalf. Not sure how the legal bullshit works. We’re all just employees or volunteers or clients, except for the three of us that are on the board.”

She takes another sip, never breaking eye contact. Her intensity is kinda scary. I get the impression she hasn’t woken up enough to put on her social mask yet, and this is the calculating, razor-sharp mind that normally hides behind it.

“So what is this ‘adverse possession’ thing? How can you guys just occupy a building you don’t own and start doing business?”

It’s the question I expected, so I have an answer ready for her. Honestly, I’d been expecting it since last night, when I first let the term drop. I’d hoped to distract her from the subject of quickenings with that piece of mundane legal trivia, but she didn’t take the bait.

“It’s an obscure part of California property law,” I answer. “Basically it lets someone who’s been living on an abandoned property apply for legal ownership, provided they’ve been there for at least five years and fixed the place up a bit. There’s some other legal hoops you have to go through, but you’d have to ask Chris or his brother if you want the details.”

I watch her mull that over. “Wait, so you can just take somebody else’s property? Aren’t you still trespassing?”

I shake my head. “The building’s abandoned. Last company that owned it crashed and burned with the dot-com bubble. Never filed for bankruptcy though, the owners just laid everybody off and disappeared. Didn’t bother to sell the place, and didn’t owe anybody enough for it to be seized. Business was tax-exempt too, so there’s no back property taxes to deal with. As for trespassing, state law says they can’t enforce private property rights if the owner’s been dead or absent for five years or more. It’s been fifteen. As long as the cops don’t catch you breaking a lock there’s nothing they can legally do.”

I take a quick breath, my chest suddenly feeling tight.

“Doesn’t mean they won’t try to do it anyway. Cops don’t give a fuck about the law when it limits their authority to fuck with people. The number of folks they beat the fuck out of and then charge with ‘resisting arrest’ proves that. You can’t be resisting arrest if there’s no legal cause to make an arrest in the first place.”

I stop and try to pull myself back under control. It’s a sore subject and even thinking about it pisses me right the fuck off. It’s obvious after even half a second of thought: If that’s the only thing you’re charged with, you weren’t resisting arrest--you were defending yourself against unlawful detention and assault. But the prosecutors and judges and even the fucking public defenders just go along with it and send hundreds of innocent people to jail for being _victims_ of police brutality. Like we’re the criminals and not the fucking pigs breaking the law. Assaulting. Kidnapping. Fucking _murdering_ the people they swore to serve and protect.

“Anyway,” I go on, gritting my teeth and trying to act like I’m not fighting down the mental image of laying siege to a police station like the fucking Terminator, “as long as you act like you’re supposed to be there and don’t give them any reason to be suspicious it isn’t a problem. Helps if you’ve got somebody normal looking to answer the door.”

I could totally do it. I’m an old pro at shrugging off bullets. Wouldn’t solve anything. They’d just use it as an excuse for more gun control laws and gestapo tactics. More tyranny. More brutality. Just like 9/11. Like the crime bills of the 90s. Like Pearl Harbor. Whip up the people’s fear and you can get them to support anything. Play it up as a ‘war on cops.’ Never mind that violent crime is the lowest it’s been in two decades, and assaults against police officers are even lower. It’s a war on _us_ , and we can’t even fight back. Violence is the problem. Not a solution.

Doesn’t mean I’m never tempted.

“So what about the name?” Rachel asks, growing more alert and less intimidating with every sip of coffee. “‘Hind Site’ seems like an odd choice for a charity organization.”

I shrug. “It was the name we all agreed on. The street address is 2020 L Street. Everybody’s got their favorite interpretation. Looking back to a time when communities took care of their own needs without governments getting in the way. A reference to the city having their collective heads up their asses...”

“Flashing your hindquarters at the authorities?”

“That too.”

*    *    *

The day drags by. I’m not sure Rachel notices. We’ve got wifi in the building so I’m waiting for Helena to message me with details on the meeting with MacLeod. It’s got me keyed up and nervous. Normally my response to dangerous headhunters or Watcher agents is flight and avoidance. Setting up a meeting with them flies in the face of one of the most basic rules of strategy: Don’t be where a potential enemy expects you.

The place is mostly empty during the first part of the day as everybody clears out to work or busk or panhandle. I lead Rachel on a meandering tour--starting with the greenhouse in case she wants to pick up some vegetables for breakfast. Part of me is thinking we could use the support of someone in the media once we have our court date and start operating more openly. The long-term goal is to use this place as a headquarters and proof-of-concept, then just keep taking over abandoned buildings until we have enough space to house all of the city’s homeless population. We’ll need the public on our side for that to work.

Another part of me knows that projects like this always end badly. The system is too invested in using poverty as a tool to maintain its wealth and dominance over the population. They called Food Not Bombs “one of America’s most hardcore terrorist groups” and used them as an example in military anti-terrorism courses. They’ve used smear campaigns and agent provocateurs to disrupt and fuck up every movement that had even a chance of succeeding at it’s goals. Hell, the FBI straight-up assassinated the leaders of the Black Panthers and the Philly P.D. firebombed an entire city block to wipe out MOVE.

Hind Site will probably end up the same way.

I show her the rows of solar panels on the roof that provide for most of our electricity. We’ll need more once the place starts filling up, but for now the demands of secrecy have kept the population down to a fraction of what the building could support.

The third and fourth floors are pretty similar--a maze of corporate offices and conference rooms converted into small studio apartments with shared kitchen and bathroom facilities, and common areas where the cubicles used to be. Part of the second floor used to be an executive gym, and we’ve done our best to resupply it with scavenged or donated equipment. The real bonus there are the showers.

The ground floor is mostly storage space. Nobody wants to stay in those offices because it’s too visible and there wouldn’t be enough warning if the place gets raided. The building has enough exits that you’d actually be better off trying to make your way out from the upper levels once the cops start kicking in doors downstairs.

We’re back in the lobby when Rachel notices the bulky form still slumped in its chair at the guard station.

“Is he _still_ sleeping?”

I put a finger to my lips, unable to keep a mischievous grin from spreading across my face.

“I said I’d introduce you, right?” I whisper. “Just stay here.”

“Wait, what are you...”

I’m already creeping across the floor, making my way with exaggerated carefulness towards the uniformed figure. It’s childish, sure, but it’s the most fun I’m liable to have today, so I make it count--even scuffing my boot loudly on the floor once ‘by accident’ and pretending to wait tensely to see if he’ll wake up.

By the time I’m standing right behind Officer Bob’s chair, Rachel is practically in knots at the other side of the hallway--caught between wanting to yell at me to stop and knowing she’d be the one to startle him awake if she does. With heist-movie carefulness, I slowly reach out a hand towards the bill of the pulled-down watch cap. Grasping it firmly between my fingers, I snatch off the cap and shoot to my feet with a loud whoop. Across the hall I hear Rachel make a strangled noise somewhere between a shout and a shriek, and I look up to savor the look of confusion that twists across her features.

Beneath the cap is a rubber mask of a pig’s head with an apple in it’s mouth.

“Rachel, meet Officer Bob N. Apples, our security guard.” I manage to cough out the words before doubling over laughing.

She recovers quickly, walking over to examine the stuffed figure.

“So, it’s a dummy?”

“Aren’t most security guards?” I haven’t stopped laughing, but it’s more under control now. For all the effort I put into coming across as half-assed and impulsive, it’s rare that I really get to loosen up like that. ‘Be wise but play the fool.’ Guess Rachel’s not the only one hiding a razor blade behind their smile.

The old man would’ve liked her.

“Hold up.” I put a hand out to stop her as she moves to come around in front of ‘Officer Bob’. She shoots me a questioning glance, and I point to the smartphone sticking out of Bob’s front pocket, turned so that the camera faces out towards the entranceway.

“One of the kids hooked it up. Wrote an app that makes the camera work like a motion sensor. If something moves in it’s field of vision, it starts recording and streaming the video to a site we have set up.”

Rachel takes a step back, sensing the second part before I say it.

“It also sends an alert to everyone who lives here. If someone tries to break in, be it cops or whoever, everybody gets a message with a picture of it--and a link to the site so they can monitor the feed. Lets us know to get the fuck out or stay away when something happens.”

She nods solemnly, not commenting on my use of the word ‘when,’ rather than ‘if.’

“There’s a cord running through the padding that keeps the phone charged. So it’s basically a jury-rigged alarm system that runs 24/7. Add in the deterrent factor that comes from having visible security at the front desk when you look in, and I guess you could say ‘Office Bob' is a pretty good security guard--despite being an overstuffed dummy.”

“That’s pretty clever.” Rachel remarks, looking over the setup with new eyes.

“Yeah, we’re all about being clever here. Have to be, to make it on the streets--let alone achieve as much as we have with the whole system against us.”

She doesn’t comment on that remark either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5, whew!
> 
> Okay, so I lied--we'll meet most of the residents of Hind Site next chapter. Mike absolutely would not shut up with the social commentary so it's taking longer to get to that scene than I expected. XP
> 
> I'm still mildly amazed by the fact that we're five chapters in and less than 24hrs has passed in the story--not counting the flashbacks. On an interesting note: Adverse possession is totally a thing. It's apparently a really old legal concept and isn't limited just to California, although the rules are different in different places. I'm by no means an expert, so my depiction of how it works in this story may not be that accurate. But hey--cool concept, no?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next time we'll actually meet Janey and Rubix, as well as some of the others who live on Mike's floor. As for what else will happen, you'll just have to stay tuned!


	6. Identity

[[Promises - Fugazi] ](https://youtu.be/2ZBcjXWUNco)

 

Once the laughter settles down, it’s time to get serious. We’re riding the elevator back up when she turns to me, the spark of a question working it’s way from her eyes to her lips like a stroke of electricity.

“You don’t have the authority to offer me a room here, do you?”

“You’ve been talking to Hope.”

“No, I’m just good at reading people and situations. This isn’t just a squat where anybody can drop in, there’s an organization behind it. You already told me you’ve had to be selective about who you let in, and when you mentioned the board you said it like you were talking about somebody else--not something you were a part of.”

“Besides,” she adds, dragging a meaningful look from the bottom of my boots to the top of my greasy, cowlicked hair, “you strike me as the kind of person who’d rather spit in the face of authority than have any of your own.”

That makes me crack a smile. Damnit, I _like_ this kid. And here I’d been doing such a good job of being a bitter old fart who doesn’t like anybody.

“Damn straight,” I reply, “authority doesn’t matter. Now that you’re here and know about the place they can’t risk throwing you out until the hearing goes through. Besides, we don’t work that way--Hind Site operates on the consensus model.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just what it sounds like: Everybody involved has to agree before a decision can be acted on. Makes it basically impossible to evict someone--they have to be willing to leave or the motion is automatically blocked.”

“Seriously? How does that even work?”

“Pretty well actually. It’s designed to protect the minority, rather than letting the rest of the group steamroll over them. We’re all outcasts here in the first place, so we know what it’s like to be shut out and ganged up on.”

“But isn’t it hard to get things done if you need everybody to agree, instead of just going with what the majority wants?”

I shake my head. _Typical._

“The point isn’t just to get things done, regardless of who wants it. _Not_ doing anything without unanimous consent is as important as doing the things that do have it. I’m not saying it doesn’t have it’s problems. We’d probably kick Zek out if we could--”

“Who?”

“Prick on crutches, you’ll know him when you see him. Walks around in a huge cloud of lysol and febreze fumes. He’s got a major case of athlete’s foot but refuses to get it treated. If you see him coming out of the showers be sure to throw bleach on the floor. You _do not_ want that shit. It’s like fuckin’ ebola at this point. We keep foot powder in the second cabinet if you need any.”

Rachel gives me a look. “Seems like a pretty big flaw in your system if you can’t get rid of someone who’s causing a major health problem like that.”

“And yet the politicians are still in charge.”

“Come again?”

“ _Homelessness_ is a major health problem. Every one of us is here because the system failed us. Failed to provide or protect or teach, whatever. Zek’s a pain in the ass, but he’s dealable. You take some precautions and you’re good. But if we kick him out, where’s he gonna’ go? Gross fucker’s gotta sleep somewhere.”

I pause to take a breath. It feels really weird to be defending Zek. Then again, maybe I should have done it sooner. We all kinda’ pick on the guy, or at least don’t stand up for him as much as we do for each other. It’s weird to realize that our gaggle of freaks and misfits has formed the same kind of bullshit social cliques that pushed us to the fringes of society.

 _Fuck,_ when did I become such a goddamn jock? Shaking my head at myself, I get on with my rant.

“The way society operates, the will of whoever’s in charge trumps everything else--whether that’s a majority or one dickhead in a position of power. If you’re not mainstream and popular, you’re fucked. You can go die in a gutter. The way _our_ system works, the needs of an individual can never be pushed aside for other people’s convenience.”

“Huh.”

As responses go, I’ve heard worse. A lot of people would be threatening to kick my teeth in by now. Religious fanatics don’t respond well when you question the basic doctrines of their faith, and regardless of what the census claims, the biggest cult in this country is nationalism. Brainwashed masses worshiping the twin gods of democracy and capitalism with as little understanding of those subjects as most ‘Christians’ have of Jesus. Now _there_ was a punk. He rebelled against every form of authority and establishment there was--right up until they killed him for it.

“Can we actually _get_ athlete’s foot?”

Rachel’s question breaks into my heretical musings, banishing the absurd mental image of a tattooed Christ sporting green liberty spikes and shouting “Love thy neighbor and fuck the system!”

“Yeah,” I answer finally, “we can still get sick--we just can’t die from it. Although as time goes on you’ll find yourself getting sick less often.”

She tilts her head questioningly. “Oh? Why’s that?”

I shrug, and try to play it vague. As her teacher, I should be telling her all about it--but there’s still some things I’m not ready to share.

“Some kind of spiritual mumbo-jumbo. We’ve basically got an unlimited supply of vitality, and it gets stronger the longer we’re alive.” I pause and make a face at the almost-rhyme. “The older ones like Helena practically never get sick, though part of that might be because they’ve been exposed to a lot more diseases and their immune systems have built up a response to a broader variety of pathogens.”

Rachel quirks an eyebrow. “Wow, Mike, really breaking out the ten dollar words there.”

“I read a lot. A big vocabulary comes with the territory.” Wince, mental kick, move on. I’m such a poser. Four and a half decades and I’m still worried about looking cool. My definition of cool, anyway. You’d think thirty years of punk would have taught me better. “Besides,” I continue, “most books on technical subjects like medicine use technical language--you just kinda’ slip into it when talking about them.”

She nods. “I can see that, I get the same way when talking about writing. It’s all similies, subtext, synecdoche...”

“Nice alliteration.”

“Thanks.”

She leans back against the elevator wall with small, self-satisfied smile--leaving me to wonder whether it was me being clever by showing off my knowledge of literary terms or her being clever by getting me to reveal it.

“So,” Rachel continues, “even if they can’t kick me out, it’s probably a good idea to at least pay lip service to the normal process anyway. Right?”

I nod.

“Yeah, not pissing off everybody I live with would be rad. Besides, you’re not officially a member yet. They _could_ throw you out once the paperwork goes through. Don’t know how long it’s going to take to deal with whatever’s going on, but I doubt it’ll be over by Monday.”

She leans her head back with a sigh.

“Yeah, probably not.”

I watch her pull herself together. It’s easy to forget how hard all this has to be for her. Being targeted by assassins and forced to hole up in a quasi-legal homeless shelter must be jarring enough. Add finding out about Immortals to the mix and it’s a wonder she’s handling it as well as she is.

“So what’s our approach?”

Once again she catches me off-guard, a startled “Huh?” the best response I can muster.

“Our story. We can’t very well tell them I’m an immortal hiding out from shadowy hit men.”

At the incredulous look I give her, she snorts and rolls her eyes.

“C’mon Mike, this isn’t my first time going undercover--it’s not even the most dangerous. I didn’t get to investigating black-ops arms smuggling rings by being delicate. The real danger is out there, looking for me.”

*    *    *

We work out the details over celery sticks and peanut butter. The food in the break room is fair game for anyone. We all pitch in what we can, and the board’s got enough connections with other local charity organizations to keep it pretty well stocked. My private burrito stash is just a symptom of paranoia, selfishness, and three decades of calcified hoarding instincts.

“Okay,” Rachel says, pushing back from the table and wiping a small gob of peanut butter from the corner of her mouth, “when and how do we want to do the punk makeover?”

Now it’s my turn to quirk an eyebrow.

“Wasn’t sure you wanted to go through with that.”

“Why not? It makes sense. People will be more likely to accept me as one of your friends if I look the part, and like Helena said it’ll make me harder to recognize when I go out. No offense, but I’m not staying cooped up in here until this thing blows over. I want to _get_ whoever’s behind it.”

I eye her warily. “Get?”

“As in front page. Headlines. Plastered across every news service from here to Uzbekistan. I don’t care if I have to skip the country afterward and seek asylum somewhere. These people tried to kill me and I am not going to stop until I blow their whole operation wide open.”

“It might not be that easy--”

“With the immortality thing, I know. I’m not going to let _that_ cat out of the bag--hell, they’d ship me off to the nuthouse if I tried--but if you’re right and someone immortal is involved, well, if they can operate in the government while keeping it under wraps they can keep it under wraps when I expose them. Just because I can’t risk getting them sent to prison doesn’t mean I can’t expose their _organization_. Throw enough sunlight on it that they can’t keep operating. If that means they get to fake their death to get out of it--I’ll just have to deal. Stories like this rarely lead to the real perpetrators serving time anyway.”

She says the last part under her breath, a bitter wistfulness tugging at the corners of her mouth that I recognize all too well. For once I keep my mouth shut. It’s entirely possible that this Immortal might be crazy or determined enough to use the risk of exposure against us. It’s even more likely that they’ll keep coming after her even after she brings their smuggling ring down--assuming she’s able to do it in the first place. But the alternative is to try and take his head, and I’m not about to recommend that course of action.

“I’m still not sure what I think about you using punk as a fucking _disguise_.” I say finally, voicing the other reservation that’s on my mind instead. “It’s my culture, not some costume.”

The look she gives me could wither plants.

“Would you try that line in front of Helena?” She asks in a quiet, challenging tone.

Despite myself, I glance away.

“No, but, that’s just ‘cause she’d take it the wrong way. You don’t have to be black to have your culture appropriated. It doesn’t have to be about race--”

“Mike, the government is literally trying to kill me, and your ‘culture’ goes for about forty bucks at Hot Topic. Now stop gatekeeping and tell me whose ass I have to kick to find a pair of clippers and some hair dye around here.”

The words hit like a punch in the nose. My first reaction is to be pissed off, but before I can think of a comeback I realize she’s right. ‘Punk style’ was being marketed and sold almost from the beginning. Fucking Vivienne Westwood made half of it up just trying to make a buck off punk kids who were too stupid to know where it came from. Besides, since when did I start giving a fuck about fashion? Back in the hardcore days, it was all blue jeans, t-shirts, and buzz-cuts. Maybe a jacket if it was cold or you wanted to get fancy. We didn’t go in for all the spikes and tropical fish hairdos. That shit took money and we were all broke as fuck. If a kid’s jeans were ripped or covered in patches it was because he was living under a fucking bridge and couldn’t afford to replace them--and if your hair was spiked it was because you hadn’t washed it in a week.

Anti-Style, in pursuit of real substance. It still drives me nuts when I see pre-ripped jeans in department stores.

Besides, who the fuck am I to be telling someone else how they should dress or style their hair?

_Fuck._

I shouldn’t care, but something about the way punk has been co-opted and commercialized makes me get all territorial. Like I want to yank it back from the kids listening to Green Day and Fall Out Boy and snarl ‘this is mine! You can’t fucking have it!’ Even though acting like that is the exact opposite of what punk stood for. Sometimes it feels like the corporate machine is a physical thing. A relentless juggernaut that keeps finding it’s way into all the hidden nooks, shadowy corners, and new territories we discovered while trying to get away from it. Driving us out and mowing through everything we’ve built--and then regurgitating it as mulch. And if you stop and try to fight instead of fleeing to the next counter-culture movement, you end up chopped up and integrated into its’ bullshit just like everything else.

Hell, I remember spending half the 90’s shaking my head at the new crop of kids and their constant debates over who was really ‘punk’ and who was a just a trendy poser. Now I feel like an old man shaking his fist and screaming ‘get off my lawn!’ If colored hair and spiky jackets are more socially acceptable now, that's a win. I should be celebrating the victory for individuality, not bitching about it. Rebellion should have a purpose besides throwing a tantrum. Guess having a body that doesn’t age didn’t stop me from getting old, and growing up in the foster system didn’t stop me from ending up like that Dead Kennedys song: _“a chickenshit conformist like your parents.”_

It’s hard to realize when you’re wrong. It’s even harder to admit it. Maybe I’ll do it later.

Instead, I take her downstairs and message Frank.

*    *    *

[ [Identity - X-Ray Spex] ](https://youtu.be/Pst5K6uEPUc)

 

Frank is one of my few mortal friends. Hell, one of my few remaining friends, period. And the only mortal who knows what I am. We grew up in the scene together, but unlike me, he didn’t have the luxury of staying a street kid forever. Now he works at a tattoo parlor across the street, but Frank’s first dream was to be a hair stylist. He’s got the skills, but doesn’t have the time or patience to put in the nearly 5,000 hours of training and apprenticeship the state of California requires for a barber’s license--just so he can ‘learn’ how to do something he’s already great at.

Especially not after going through all the bullshit needed to become a professional tattoo artist with a steady clientele.

He shows up about ten minutes after I message him, carrying the duffel bag I know he keeps in the trunk of his car. He may not be legally allowed to cut people’s hair for money, but nothing stops him from volunteering his services. He can even write off the supplies on his taxes, though for some fucking reason you can’t deduct hours spent doing volunteer work.

We let him in the side door that faces his shop on 21st street. Nobody uses the front, not with 'Officer Bob' on guard. Frank’s got a real outgoing personality, and a smile as bright as his skin is dark. It lights up the room like a strobe the moment he steps into the building.

“Ri- _ver!_ ” he shouts, throwing his arms wide in greeting despite the weight of the duffel in his hand, “How’s it goin’ my man? You two ready to get _fabulous?_ ”

This week he’s got his hair done up in multicolored cornrows that weave together in a rainbow pattern and shoot off in jagged, narrow braids from his head. Looking at him feels a bit like watching a Coolio video on acid. He’s wearing jeans and a Black Flag t-shirt, his exposed, muscular forearms showing off his extensive tattoo sleeves--done up like the patches on a crust kid’s pants. A multitude of images and slogans declare his love for punk music and culture as well as his stance on a number of socio-political issues. Frank literally wears both his heart and his politics on his sleeves--a ballsy move for a gay black man in a government town.

“You’re looking good, Frank,” I respond, deflecting both his questions, “been working out?”

He grins wider and gives me a friendly punch in the shoulder.

“Hell yeah, gotta’ stay in shape if I wanna’ pick up guys at the gym.”

I crack a smile, Frank’s been in a committed relationship for the last four years.

“Don’t let your boyfriend catch you talking like that.”

“Shit, where you think I met him? On _Grindr?_ ”

A lot of folks seem to think punk was just a bunch of skinny, angry, white guys--but people like Frank and Helena were always a part of it. The same way they were a part of rock, blues, and jazz before that. Maybe literally in Helena’s case. I’ve never asked much about her history before I met her. Probably why she puts up with me. I’m still working on my first lifetime and already I can see the value of friends that don’t make you dredge up the past. There’s always so much pain in it.

I’m musing on pain and the forgotten contributions of black people to American culture as the three of us head up to the showers on the second floor. Rachel and I already have a basin and a chair set up. Frank gives free haircuts to the residents here every couple months, so we’ve gotten used to setting up an impromptu salon in the shower stalls. Practically have it down to an artform.

 _Not forgotten,_ I correct myself, _deliberately erased._ I wonder if we aren’t still using black people the way we did during slavery--only instead of growing our crops now they grow our cultural movements. Planting the seeds, nurturing them and helping them grow only for some rich white guy to come along and harvest it, selling it off to suburban white kids in middle class homes and taking all the money and credit.

As she takes a seat, Frank brings out his phone--showing her a variety of styles and colors not to be found in nature. It’s good to see him like this. Happy and in his element. I remember too many years where we both thought our lives would amount to nothing.

Guess it was only mine that ended up that way.

I sit down on the tile floor as Frank goes to work on Rachel’s head with bleach, clippers and dye--as well as other implements and substances I can’t name. All the while keeping up the trademark cheerful banter that makes him such a hit when he’s inking some kid's arm.

To be honest, I’m kinda’ tuning out. This whole business has me preoccupied and my brain keeps trying to escape it by running away on philosophical tangents rather than staying in the here and now where I might have to deal with the reality of what’s facing us. Of course, the anxiety stewing in my skull makes my thoughts inevitably run to dark places which only sours my already bad mood.

“So what about you, River Rat?”

Frank’s words startle me out of my brooding contemplations. Rachel’s out of the chair and Frank’s standing beside it with a comb in his hand and an expectant expression on his face.

“Huh?”

He gives me a patient smile, like a kind older brother dealing with a troublesome sibling. Ironic, since I’m about six or seven years older than him.

“You gonna’ let me do something about that hot mess on your head or what man?” he asks, gesturing at my hair for emphasis, “I know you ‘aint been taking care of it.”

Shrugging in defeat, I slip into the seat Rachel has just vacated. I can hear the reporter oohing and ahhing over her new look in one of the mirrors on the other side of the dividing wall. I must have missed the final result, but apparently she likes it.

Doesn’t surprise me, Frank always does good work. He’s got a talent for capturing abstract ideas and emotions and expressing them with color and shape. He was good at it when he was spray painting graffiti on the high rises and overpasses when we were kids, and he’s great at it now that he seals feelings and concepts indelibly into people’s flesh for a living. And more temporarily, onto their heads.

“So man,” he asks me, gripping a comb and a pair of buzz trimmers in either hand and taking up his position behind me, “whatchu want this to say?”

I pause for a moment to think about it, only to realize I already know the answer.

“War.”

His eyelids slide half closed, gazing soberly into mine through the intermediary of the standing mirror we have set up in front of the chair. It’s almost obscene to see such a somber, joyless expression on his usually animated face.

“It’s that bad huh?” he asks softly.

A corner of my mouth tilts up in a tight, wry smile.

“You know me: Hope for the best--”

“--and plan for the worst.” He finishes, nodding. “Yeah man, I know.”

*    *    *

[ [Prince of Darkness - Megadeth] ](https://youtu.be/tV1-MA_xyx8)

 

_It’s all going well._

So thinks the short man in the crisp, charcoal suit, looking over a report in one hand while sipping at a scotch in the other. He learned long ago to embrace his status as a functioning alcoholic, and has since found that he operates much better when not constantly at war with himself over trying to suppress his addiction. Others may view it as a weakness, but that is their mistake to make and his advantage, should it come to that.

_‘Be wise, but play the fool.’_

The ancient words comfort him. One of the thirty-six stratagems for successful warfare. Of course, they didn’t have a term like ‘functioning alcoholic’ back in his day. That wasn’t even the language they spoke back then. Back in the old country.

But that country, like so many things, is gone. It’s name may still grace maps but it’s borders and character are different beyond reconciliation. The new frontier is here, in America. In this dark, but oddly spacious office where he pulls strings and orchestrates events that resonate out across the globe.

War is very good business, and he is _very_ good at war.

A soft knock shifts his attention to the door, and then to the small screen set into his desk. A display of the feed from the closed-circuit camera on the other side.

It’s Cole. Carrying another report to judge from the manila folder held low against his dark-suited body with both hands. American military bearing. So odd. It always looks like they’re trying to cover their testicles.

He pushes the button to buzz him in, though of course the only sound is the clicking thunk of the magnetic lock disengaging. He prefers the quiet. It gives him space in which to think. As Cole crosses the thick, sound dampening carpet, he thinks of not less than seventeen ways to kill the man before he would be able to react.

Cole hands him the file without incident. Without a word, in fact. Though he waits for his employer to nod before leaving. Another sign of military discipline.

Idly planning out the best way to kill those around him is an old habit, and one that has served him well. To walk into a room without knowing how to destroy everyone present is to court disaster. The mind is a weapon--the best weapon, in fact--and like any tool one must keep it honed and stay well-practiced in it’s use.

Glancing at the contents of the report, it appears his mind is going to get fractionally more practice in the near future. The team failed. Miller and Davis. He knows the names of everyone who works for him. As he knows their background, hobbies, associates, vices, secrets, and family members.

Not that he would target the family of an agent in his employ without a compelling reason. Used wantonly, that kind of measure breeds resentment, dissent. Rebellion.

Too much stick and not enough carrot, as they might say in the here and now.

Still, it is always good to have the option available, should it prove the most expedient method of achieving one’s goals. It is simply important that one _have_ a goal beyond mere brutality if one wishes to maintain a position of power.

The journalist was only a minor detail. But it is also important to pay attention to minor details. For instance, the sudden appearance of this youth. That he was able to steal the team’s vehicle, and apparently thought to wipe his prints from the interior and take the registration papers, implies a cunning professionalism at odds with his apparent age and status. The fact that he managed to carry off the target despite multiple gunshot wounds, and that neither of their bodies were recovered with the car, implies something else entirely.

It’s not a problem.

He commits the information to memory, then feeds both folders into the narrow slot in his desk. He doesn’t use a shredder. Fire is much more effective.

His colleagues may mock his preference for hand-delivered hard copy over electronic reports, but considering the lengths he and others have gone to ensure that digital communications remain vulnerable, he would be a fool to rely on them. With every security and intelligence agency shifting their focus and budgets towards cyber-security and electronic warfare, few are left with the knowledge and skill set--let alone departments and manpower--to address the more antiquated methods of counter-intelligence. Methods he is extraordinarily well versed in, having lived through the inception of many of them.

_‘Borrow a corpse to resurrect the soul.’_

No, this pair of Immortals will not be a problem. Nor are they unanticipated. When ordering a death, he is always careful to take the possibility that the target could be an Immortal--or a pre-Immortal--into consideration. That was one of the reasons he ordered the men to decapitate the woman instead of merely shooting her and driving away. The other being that it would make it easier to tie the crime to supposed Islamic extremists operating on U.S. soil. With each shocking, ‘unexpected’ attack, more power falls into the hands of men like him. The public and policymakers alike are so eager to give up their freedom and control for the promise of security. One doesn’t even need to actually provide it.

He is also careful to plan for failure due to outside interference. It would be foolish to rely on a single plan, or to assume that your plans will succeed without complication.

_‘Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.’_

He really should add that one to the list. Maybe he’ll publish a revised edition in a few years. In the meantime, he needs to take steps to confirm that they are Immortals, and then begin work on flushing them out so he can take their heads.

Steepling his fingers, he reviews the information in his mind:

 _‘A young male,’_ the now incinerated report had read, _‘mid to late teens. Dark hair and eyes. Wearing shabby clothing and an old military backpack. Manner of dress consistent with homelessness and involvement with the anarchist ‘punk’ subculture.’_

He wasn’t one to jump to conclusions.

But still.

_I bet I know who you are…_

* * *

End Chapter 6 _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6!
> 
> Dun, dun, DUNNN!
> 
> 4/26: Fixed up a couple typos.
> 
> So, yeah, that'll teach me to make promises or predictions. Dunno when I'll get around to introducing the rest of the Hind Site residents, but it'll happen eventually. Maybe.
> 
> Stay tuned for Chapter 7! What'll happen next? Clearly I'm as much in the dark as the rest of you! XP


	7. Lull

[ - ]

“So, is this Immortal business?” Frank asks, his long fingers guiding the clippers over my scalp as another hunk of hair falls to the floor.

“Yeah.” I answer with a sigh.

Frank and I are close. Watching each other’s backs for the better part of three decades will do that. When I fell off the I-80, we’d been trying to climb over the side of the overpass to spray paint a mural on it. He saw me land on top of the semi, and spent the next three weeks hitchhiking around trying to find out where it went--or at least where my body ended up. When he finally found me in Davis, he told me he’d felt responsible for bringing me up there, and had to find out what happened. Said he knew no one else gave a fuck about us, so he _had_ to care.

Sometimes I think we might have ended up together, if I’d been the kind of person who has relationships like that. Whatever we are, ‘friends’ doesn’t quite cover it--and ‘brothers’ feels wrong for a whole number of reasons. We drifted a bit as he got older, and more since he met his boyfriend. Not that I have any resentment. It’s just harder for a grown man and someone who looks like a teenager to hang out. The world is watching, after all, and people think they’re entitled to make judgements and ask questions we don’t have easy answers to. There’s such a specter of abuse it’s no longer socially acceptable for a guy to be friendly or spend time with kids if he isn’t a family member or being paid to watch them. And gay guys have even more suspicion directed at them, despite the one having fuck all to do with the other.

Any deviation from the mainstream makes you a suspect. If you’re not whitebread and boring you’re untrustworthy and dangerous. That’s all ‘deviant’ really means: Different. Personally, I find all that brainless, insular conformity to be a lot more dangerous. But then, I’ve seen what happens when chickenheads decide to peck something to death for standing out.

Besides, Frank and I don’t do the same things anymore, and he’s got responsibilities eating up his time. Punk was always the thing that tied us together. Now we’re both stuck on the outside looking in on what’s left of the local scene. Too old to be a part of the new social circles keeping it alive. The cops drove the shows so far underground they’re all word of mouth now, and neither of us really have an ‘in’ with the latest generation of high school kids--even if I still look the part. Hind Site is pretty much the last connection either of us have, besides memories.

“She one too?”

He’s switched from buzz clippers to scissors and a comb, punctuated by misting from some kind of spray bottle. His tone is casual, but I can feel the concern behind it. Me going to war is like Danzig going to church--a sign that something is fundamentally fucked up with the world.

_Heh, isn’t it always?_

“Yeah. Somebody’s after her. One of us, or somebody that knows about us. I’m helping her lay low while we try to figure out who it is and what to do about it.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You’re doing it.”

It sounds harsher than I meant it to. Like I’m shutting him out instead of letting him know that he _is_ helping, and I appreciate it. There was a time it wouldn’t even have been a question. If one of us was in trouble the other would back them up. I suppose I was the one to change that, when I stopped trying to solve my problems by kicking the shit out of them.

Frank was always the braver of the two of us. He had the guts to act like he was going to live forever even though he knew he wasn’t. He never relied on me to take hits for him, even when it meant being hung over and covered in bruises the next day while I looked fine.

I guess deep down, I never felt I deserved it--even if I knew it was more for him than me. He wanted to be the guy that stood up for his friends. It was always more about solidarity and the principle of it than whether or not they needed the help. Me, I just wanted to make it through the day. I’ve always wondered if I would have been as wild and crazy if I didn’t have immortality to fall back on.

Probably not.

“So what’s your plan? Whatcha’ gonna’ do when you find the guy?”

I think about my answer. For someone who places so much stock in strategy and tactics, it’s startling to realize I don’t actually _have_ a plan. I have absolutely no idea where to even start with this shit. Government conspiracies are an order of magnitude over my head. Normally I’d rely on the anonymity of my lifestyle to disappear, or lure out whoever’s hunting me and ambush them. But Rachel isn’t likely to want to hide out at the river for the next few years, and they’re not after _me_. I’m just now beginning to realize that none of the methods I’ve perfected over the years work when you’re trying to protect someone else.

“Try to find a way to get whoever it is off our backs.” I say finally. ”Hopefully without anybody losing their head.”

I watch the tension bleed out of Frank’s wiry, narrow frame.

“That’s good, man. Seeing you all geared-up, talkin’ ‘bout war,” he shakes his head slowly, “it’s like watching an ex-junky pick up the needle again.”

“Geared-up?”

“Yeah, man. I can tell you’re packin’ somethin’. You hold yourself different when you got a weapon on you. It’s in the shoulders. You get this look that says ‘come get wrecked!’”

He belts out those last words in a fair imitation of a bellicose jock, the sound echoing off the shower tiles like the bark of an angry dog.

Our eyes meet in the mirror for a moment, something passing between us that words can’t quite convey. Concern. Comradery. The understanding that comes with knowing someone most of your life and holding their secret fears and motivations as closely as your own. He knows what fighting means to me. Knows maybe better than I do the psychological implications of arming myself again after all this time. Then Frank shakes his head and continues.

“Maybe other people wouldn’t notice, but I know you. Could see it when I walked in. You looked like the _old_ days man.”

 _The old days._ Those words carry weight. The gravity of them draws my eyes to the ground, staring at the clumps of hair littering the floor.

“Is that so bad?”

My phone starts to buzz before he can answer. I keep it on vibrate most of the time. Never know when a sudden noise could draw unwanted attention, and you rarely have the opportunity to think about it beforehand. Of course, even vibrate mode makes noise when the pocket with your phone in it is pressed up against the plastic arm of a chair.

“That the call you been waiting for?”

I never told him I was waiting for a call, but I suppose if he can tell when I’m carrying a weapon, he can read the anticipation of waiting for a text back. It’s... alarming, being so transparent to somebody. Even if it’s also comforting at the same time.

“A message, but yeah. Should be Helena with some info.”

“Alright man, I’ll finish up. You say hi to the old lady for me when you see her, yeah?”

I crack a smile. Helena hates being called ‘old lady’, even if she is the oldest person Frank and I know by a couple of lifetimes.

“Will do.”

*    *    *

[ [Life of Crime - The Weirdoes] ](https://youtu.be/qvsr2fBVf90)

 

I’m sitting with Rachel on the light rail, trying to get a look at my new hairstyle in the plexiglass window. She covered the tickets. Five fucking bucks. I remember when a dollar twenty-five got you an all day pass.

Frank did good, as always, tightening up the sides and spiking the rest into a tall, frizzy perversion of a military flat top. Like Duke Nukem if he’d grown it out another three inches and been struck by lightning. It narrows in the back, the spikes continuing down to the base of my neck like a mohawk, and the color shades from bright yellow at the roots to atomic orange with streaks of blood red--my favorite colors in the crayon box. It looks like a wall of fucking napalm on top of my skull. I don’t know how, but he also managed to buzz a circle-A into the short-cropped hair over my left ear, airbrushing over the edges in black so it looks like graffiti--or a burn mark.

Didn’t know you could _do_ curved lines with clippers.

“You should see the other side.” Rachel says, her eyes gleaming impishly between the two vivid purple locks framing her face. She’s got close-cropped bangs with a long, tapered strand hanging down in front of each ear, but behind that the sides of her head are shaved, with the remaining hair pulled up into a broad, curly horse’s mane that shades from royal purple to ultraviolet. It’s a clever job--hit it with a bottle of black dye and brush it back down over the sides and no one would ever know. Goes to show how much thought Frank puts into his work.

“How long is this going to stay up anyway?” She asks, running her fingertips thoughtfully over the shaved part of her head. “I forgot to ask him if there were any special upkeep instructions.”

I grin out the side of my face closest to the window.

“About a week, if you don’t mind taking cold showers and laying off the shampoo,” I tell her, “Frank’s got a special formula he uses, basically turns your hair into fucking fiberglass.”

“A week? So that means…”

“It means we’ll be sleeping on our sides for a while.” I answer, the grin breaking wide across my features as I reach back to touch the stiff strands of hair jutting out from the back of my head.

“Don’t worry, it breaks down with heat and soap if you want to wash it out sooner than that. Doesn’t even clog up the drain the way epoxy or rubber cement does.”

Rachel shoots me a look.

“Do people really do that?”

I smile. I guess everybody’s heard the jokes about punks using glue to spike up their mohawks.

“Kids do all kinds of stupid things,” I tell her, “especially when they have to. It’s not like a broke teenager can just walk into a salon, and some places won’t sell you hairspray if you’re under 18 because they think you’re going to huff it. I’ve used Elmer’s a few times. It’s cheaper than hair gel and works about the same, though if you aren’t careful you get these white gobs in your hair that look like dried cum. Guess that’s okay if your only goal is to freak out the normies. Kinda’ stupid to go punk if you care what people think of you anyways.”

I give a shrug, overly conscious of the fact that it’s a lesson I’m still trying to learn. Leaning my head against the window, I gaze out past the bone white industrial buildings and two story town houses. You can’t actually see it from here, but my mind’s eye is focused on a two block area about a quarter mile to the west called Poverty Ridge. Despite the name, it’s actually one of the most disgustingly upscale neighborhoods this side of the freeway. Word is it got it’s name from the tent cities that used to spring up there whenever the rest of the town flooded. Back in the 18-whatevers. Then some rich assholes got the bright idea to buy up the land and build a bunch of fancy mansions, selling them off to other rich assholes. All this was way before my time. All I know for sure is that when the rivers jumped their banks again in ‘82, trying to camp out on Poverty Ridge would have gotten you shot for trespassing.

“I knew one kid who tried using super glue to spike his hair,” I add casually, half in the conversation and half lost in memory.

Rachel’s eyes widen, no doubt contemplating all the hilarious ways that could go horribly wrong.

“Oh yeah? What happened?”

“Had a comb stuck in it for the better part of a month. Kinda’ caught on with his friends for a while. Then some people started saying they were making fun of black people and the afro pick thing, so it died out.”

She gives a quiet nod at that. I guess we’ve both seen the ways politics and self-expression tangle together. Especially when marginalized groups are involved. Everything you do as an individual gets copied and gets you accused of copying somebody else--even if it was just an accident like Nick gluing a fucking comb to his head. Some of the criticism comes from legitimate concerns, god knows white folks have a long history of stealing from other cultures without really bothering to understand them and twisting it into the most offensively racist shit imaginable. But the rest is like people who were abused as kids growing up to be bullies. Seems like everybody who comes up getting shit about the way they look gets this huge bug up their ass about it later. Somehow we all end up treating the fads of our youth like an exclusive club where the entrance fee is schoolyard beatings.

It’s not just fashion either. Show me a group that’s faced oppression somewhere in their history and I’ll show you a community with some of the most rabidly bigoted motherfuckers on the planet. Intellectually, I get it. Oppression _hurts_ . Getting treated like shit just for being who you are--or for what people _think_ you are--really messes with you. It’s like a pressure that builds up behind your eyes and in your chest and it never quite lets up. Gets in there so deep it becomes a part of your identity. You feel like you have to find some way to relieve it or you’re going to explode. It’s something you _need_ \--the same way a drowning man needs air. You can’t think past it, and the most obvious way to vent that pressure is by dumping it back on somebody else. So you end up doing the same kind of petty bullshit that was done to you, and things just get worse.

Simple physics: For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction. You can’t stop the cycle by pumping more hatred and violence into it.

Gazing at the buildings passing by through the transparent reflection of my hair, it almost looks like the city’s on fire. In a way it is. The whole world is burning, and people keep trying to put it out with flamethrowers and gasoline.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Can’t afford to get distracted right now. Our meeting with the Highlander is set for three o’clock at the East Lawn Memorial Cemetery, so we’re on the gold line heading east. It was just under a mile’s walk to get to the station, but taking the gold line is the best way to get to East Lawn if you don’t have a car and don’t want to use the main entrance off Folsom boulevard. Right now we meet both criteria. Technically Rachel has a car, but the rental she picked up when she hit town is currently stuck on the wrong side of the crime scene tape wrapped around the parking garage where she got shot last night.

 _Where_ _we_ _got shot,_ I remind myself grimly.

A strip of yellow plastic wouldn’t keep us from taking the car, but an officer guarding the scene might. Besides, going back to a vehicle that’s tied to your identity defeats the whole purpose of changing your appearance. Considering what we’re up against, we can’t rule out the possibility that the car’s being watched. Or bugged. Or rigged to explode. Although I doubt they have a sniper watching the parking lot because the best place to set up for _that_ would be on the roof of our building--and I didn’t see anybody up there when I was snagging tomatoes this morning.

I have to remind myself that we don’t know for sure that it’s the government behind the hit on Rachel, but the pieces fit and it doesn’t pay to take chances. Better to go full-bore and end up steamrolling over anything less than an actual black ops smuggling ring. Way better than being caught under-prepared and finding ourselves on the other side of the steamroller. Confidence is for chumps, give me controlled paranoia any day. Overreacting gets shit done.

As for our approach, the front entrance to the cemetery is the one most likely to be used by someone from out of town--and the most likely place to set up an ambush. Holy ground doesn’t mean jack shit if you get jumped outside the gates, so using a lesser-known entrance makes it more likely we’ll actually get inside before running into anyone. We’re also running two hours early. So that helps.

The other advantage to taking the gold line instead of the bus is that it drops us off a block from the southeast corner of the cemetery. The route 30 bus stop may be closer to Hind Site, but we’d still end up walking about the same distance once we got off--and it’d be a hike through the kind of neighborhood where a couple of neon-haired punks are liable to get the cops called on them just for breathing. It may not be Poverty Ridge, but there’s more neighborhood watch signs in that part of town than there are _blocks_ \--and in the age of the telecommute, I’d rather not bet on everybody being at the office on a Friday afternoon.

Aside from the neighborhood it’s in, East Lawn is a good choice for the meeting. Makes me wonder if Helena suggested it. There’s a bunch of ways in, which means there’s also a bunch of ways out if things go all pear shaped. Holy ground may offer some protection, but I wouldn’t count on it going farther than a social taboo--and _somebody_ has been breaking the rules already.

There are other advantages to using East Lawn as well, but I’ll count those chickens when and if it comes to that. In the meantime, I lean back in my seat and decide to give Rachel the nickel tour. She’s new in town, after all, and she did spring for the tickets.

“So, coming up on the left--your right--is the River City food bank. Used to be on 27th street until somebody burned it down about five years ago. Before that they were operating out of St. Paul’s over on J street.”

Rachel arches a brow. Not shocked, just mildly taken aback.

“Somebody burned down a food bank?”

I shrug.

“What can I say, there are a lot of assholes in the world. The poor and homeless are like hookers--we make good targets because society teaches people to devalue us. To see us as less human and less deserving than some guy who wears a suit and works in an office. Even though guys in suits do more damage to society than we ever could. Any place that tries to help us becomes a target too. Who’s going to miss some homeless shelter or a food bank? Just a lot of people no one cares about, and maybe a few bleeding hearts that volunteer there.”

It’s harsh, but it’s the truth. You spend some time on the streets, you get used to the fact that people see you as trash littering up their sidewalks. They resent you for existing. Most people won’t admit it, but a lot of them would rather have us all rounded up and executed than try to see us as fellow human beings. Then they might have to grow some fucking empathy and realize that it could happen to them.

“Now going by on my left is the Department of Human Assistance...”

I’m sitting with my back to the front of the train, which means technically she can see the places before I do, but I know this route well enough to call it by memory.

“...Though in my experience, those fuckers could use some assistance in being human.”

Rachel gives me a shrewd look.

“Not a fan, I take it?”

I shake my head.

“The DHA has it’s hands in everything from health insurance to welfare, food stamps and the foster system. Had to deal with them a lot back when I was a kid. Their main goal seems to be tying everybody up in as much red tape, frustration, and grade-A bureaucratic bullshit as possible in the hopes that you’ll give up, go away, or just fuck off and die. There’s always somebody skimming off the government funds going into those places, and the more people they have to actually help the less money there is to embezzle.”

The look on Rachel’s face sharpens.

“You were a foster kid?”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly, my words seem to dry up. Despite myself, I feel my eyes snap to the side. As though the admission were somehow shameful. It’s so stupid. I shouldn’t feel this way. I know better. If anything, the fact that I wasn’t acceptable to the kind of mainstream whitebread people who are allowed to adopt should be a badge of honor. But the sense of being ‘damaged goods’ was drilled into me long before I learned to question society’s standards, and reason isn’t enough to dislodge it.

“I was too,” Rachel says quietly, “Or at least, I was adopted when I was an infant. My parents didn’t tell me until I was older.”

I’d suspected. A lot of immortals have murky backgrounds. Orphaned or adopted. Some people put it down to superstitious parents being quick to disavow their ‘unnatural’ children. Others suspect we’re all foundlings and adoptees, and the ones with ‘real’ parents just never found out the truth. One more thing I hadn’t been in a hurry to teach her about us.

“What was that like?” I ask, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. It stings to hear somebody compare finding out after it’s too late to really matter with growing up in state institutions.

She shrugs her shoulders. “Weird? Surreal. Like someone took the world and tilted it. Or like it had been tilted the whole time and then suddenly righted,” she shrugs again, “I guess I was lucky.”

“I wasn’t.”

The words come out as a half-growl, surprising me with their bitterness. That was thirty fucking years ago. I keep thinking I’m over it, but I never am.

The train slows to a stop on the other side of the I-80. I was so busy moping I missed my chance to brag about falling off of it. A couple guys in suits get on, but I’m not paying attention. This is a government town, it’s full of guys in suits--and ever since gas prices shot up you see more and more of them riding public transportation with the rest of us.

I raise my head to look back at Rachel, but something’s off. She’s tense. Trying not to show it. The tightness around her eyes gives it away. I glance to the window, using the reflection to see behind me, and find myself locking gazes with one of the suits who’s staring intently in our direction.

_Shit._

Our eyes dart away from each other’s almost instantly, but there’s no mistaking it. Human beings have been hunters for too long to not recognize the look that passes between a predator and it’s suddenly aware prey.

“C’mon,” I say, shooting out of my seat and reaching for Rachel's arm, “this is our stop.”

* * *

End Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 is up!
> 
> So, that only took the better part of a year. Pardons for the long absence, 2016 really threw me for a loop, and 2017 hasn't been much better so far.
> 
> I'm hoping I can get back into the swing of things, as I want to see this story done as much as you do.
> 
> Fingers crossed!
> 
> Also I really want to thank the people who have left kudos and comments on this work. I know I really let you guys down by disappearing like that, but it's the knowlege that there are other people out there who want to see where this goes that keeps dragging me back to work on it even when I really want to just tune out and hide for the next 8 years or so.


End file.
